


Lives in Legacy

by OneofWebs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childbirth, Childhood Friends, Death, Dirty Talk, Dyn Marv, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fights, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Graphic Description, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Male omegas have vaginas, Mating, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega/Omega, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Running Away, Scenting, Sexism, Stygga Citadel, Swordfighting, Training, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 227,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Eskel was the first to present, but in no way that he should have. He'd always known he was different; this just proved it. Kaer Morhen, the School of the Wolf, held tight to old traditions. They didn't train omegas. They didn't want omegas. Being an omega in Kaer Morhen was a fate worse than death, and omegas have died because of it. Eskel couldn't hide himself forever, and when his truth came out, nothing would ever be the same. The only hope he had left was that Geralt could keep his promise: that he was going to save Eskel.
Relationships: Aiden/Eskel (The Witcher), Aiden/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 385
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of my next big fic! It will be updating every Thursday.
> 
> A good portion of this is already written out. I'm actually working on chapter 29, right now. so we're in this for the long haul.
> 
> I've pretagged a good portion of it as well just so people know what kind of story this is going to be, but I'll make sure things are properly marked when they arrive. Currently, know that I'm choosing to portray male omegas with vaginas. If that's something that upsets you, please don't read this fic. Characters/Ships are tagged roughly in the order they will appear, so don't expect some of them until later on in the story. Other tags will be added as needed.
> 
> Current chapter count is also a guesstimate. I'm not sure how many chapters this will be, just that it will be a lot.
> 
> I would also like to thank my compatriot Rocket for fueling this wonderful fire here that I am about to present. Please enjoy!
> 
> Follow my [New Tumblr](https://oneofwebs.tumblr.com/) for updates and information!

All of the boys met in the courtyard before the sun had even risen over the walls of Kaer Morhen. They were a group of twelve or should have been. Eskel was missing, leaving them at eleven, and that was the first thing brought up before any training would even commence. Eskel was sick and was not to be disturbed nor hassled for his condition. No matter the fact that no other boy had ever been given a free pass on training, regardless of what section of their entrails they were throwing up, Eskel had Vesemir’s express permission to skip.

Spring had just turned, and with that, the whole group of boys had turned thirteen. That had come with the most uncomfortable talk amongst all of them what it would mean as they reached this part of life. It was the first time Geralt had really heard about the Trial of the Grasses—something they would face once they turned fifteen. The Trial of Dreams came at eighteen, only after everything they needed to live in the world had developed. Provided they survived and could prove themselves after, they would be Witchers.

This was the stretch of time where they would all _present_. Geralt had heard talk about it. Kaer Morhen mostly trained alphas to be Witchers. They trained betas, too. No omegas. While betas would lack some of the finery of an alpha, they still had particular traits that would begin to develop at this stage in life.

This was the time when their senses of smells would develop. They would get bigger, too, and stronger. The alphas would be shows of true strength, while the betas might be able to rely on quick wit and reflexes. All starting to develop. Witcher training would supplement it all when they were done, and then they would have that pesky ability to create children removed. Trial of the Dreams.

The timing was right, but something was off. Vesemir looked strange about the situation, and quickly shoved it to the side to begin training. Geralt didn’t have much time to think about it, either, as he was called up first to practice the sword. All he could manage was a glance off to in the direction of the bastion. Was Eskel sick, or was he _presenting_? Presenting had no exact time; it just came when it came. At any point in the next five years.

None of them really knew exactly how old they were, either, not with how stringently efficient their new ages were. Eskel was still older. They’d done too much talking one night instead of sleeping and figured it out. It wasn’t by much, no more than a few months, but Eskel was older. Even if it still seemed a bit early to present, it wasn’t unheard of. Being older meant it would most likely happen before Geralt’s did, too. He could be becoming an alpha; that was a better excuse for missing than being sick.

That meant Eskel would be back the following day, presentation over. Geralt could ignore orders not to hassle him about missing, because they were friends, and things would go back to normal. In the meantime, Geralt stood when he was called and accepted the training sword that Vesemir handed him. It wouldn’t be long until they were all given real swords, their own proper equipment, and set out to proper sparring. For now, it was endless demonstrations, dummies, and training swords. Geralt was ready for more.

“Take your stance,” Vesemir ordered, and Geralt did just that. “Stand firm,” was the only warning Geralt got before Vesemir struck for him.

Geralt stumbled back and didn’t quite manage to catch himself before Vesemir struck again. Three strikes were all it took to land Geralt right on the ground, and he didn’t miss how some of the other boys laughed. Reven, golden haired and dark-eyed, laughed the loudest. That just made Geralt angry. Reven was just about the best of them as Geralt could, evenly matched so far on every front except _dignity_ , of which Geralt had the most of. Reven’s mocking just made him angry, and he growled as he pulled himself up to his feet.

“Your stance, Geralt,” Vesemir continued. He ignored the growing tension. “It may seem a fool’s idea, but it is the most important part of your sword technique. Without proper footwork, you’ll find yourself knocked to the ground by even the weakest of monsters.”

“Bet he’d fall on his own ass,” Reven helpfully supplied from the audience.

“Reven, silence!” Vesemir shouted. “You’ll be here up next with that attitude.”

Reven silenced himself, frowning. It was Geralt’s turn to smirk. His focus returned quickly, though, unwilling to bring Vesemir’s ire towards himself. He was still a bit unfocused, a bit uneasy on his feet, but he was being used as the demonstration dummy. This wasn’t really about how well he could do it in the moment, just as long as Vesemir could kick his ankles apart to where they needed to be and have a shadow to prove his point. Geralt’s eyes could still ghost off towards the bastion. He was, of course, under the assumption that that’s where Eskel was.

After the first bout of humiliation, Geralt didn’t find himself struck to his ass again. They were all still learning, and though they were progressing, there was something to be said for taking it slow in the early hours of the morning. The harder stuff wouldn’t start until the afternoon, and even then, the real challenge wouldn’t begin until they were all a slight bit older.

Vesemir wasn’t the most obvious of men. He was an alpha, and old, all plain as day, but he was hard to read. It made it hard to gauge what he was going to do when he advanced forward, his order this time to parry his attacks. Geralt might have been able to figure it out, well enough, but his mind was elsewhere. Drifting, as it tended to when there were other things to think about. Eskel, for example. Geralt may have not fallen flat on his ass, but he would certainly not make it out of this training session without a few bruises.

He was struck again and again, only managing to parry on the third attempt. When they changed tunes, Geralt’s turn to strike, he did so without the strength he should have been able to muster. Vesemir, hard as he was to read, did not take the time to hide his confusion. Geralt tried, but of the many things he was beginning to master, his own attention span wasn’t one of them. That would come later.

“Enough of this,” Vesemir said. They lowered their training swords, and Vesemir stepped forward to put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “We’ll talk after,” he said far too quietly for anyone but Geralt to hear him.

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat and his heart sank a notch. Vesemir was disappointed in him, and though none of the other boys could see it, he could. He could hear it in that command to talk after they were finished. Vesemir was more than just Geralt’s sword instructor, and he always would be. However disappointed Geralt might have been in himself to just fail at their exercise was tenfold in comparison to knowing he was disappointing someone who took care of him.

He returned to the grass in a bit of shame, slumping down into it and hunching over his folded legs. He didn’t sit like that for long, as Gweld joined him a moment later. Gweld had red hair and stupid looking eyes. He had no qualms about sitting right down next to Geralt, so close that their thighs were pressed together. One arm was thrown around Geralt’s shoulder while the other stretched out to point as Reven was called up, next.

“You cannot miss this,” Gweld insisted. “You can sulk later.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. They were liable to get in trouble next for just talking amongst themselves. Geralt was ready for _real_ training, though. He was ready to do what he’d heard the real Witchers talking about—training that they’d done in their youth. Soon, they would learn to parry more than just the blunt of a blade, but projectiles. They would learn to use signs in battle and not just how to use them; Geralt hoped that wouldn’t be something Eskel was excused from. Eskel had a particular fascination with the signs.

Reven fared no better in the fight than Geralt had, and _his_ mind wasn’t wandering to particular missing friends. Reven should have been able to outshine Geralt without a single problem, but he was cocky and angry, more so than the rest of them were, and it landed him on his ass several times. Geralt had the decency not to laugh, and instead leaned into Gweld’s shoulder when Gweld started to whisper.

“I bet we start real sparring soon,” Gweld said. “Thinking that Vesemir’s as fed up with these basics as we are.” He even laughed.

“Do you think?”

“Definitely, and I bet you and Reven get paired up. Do us all a favor and get rid of him. Don’t want to see how insufferable he’ll be when he goes alpha.” Gweld snorted.

Geralt grinned. “What if never does?” Betas weren’t unheard of. Jorgen was one of the real Witchers, probably nearing fifty with how long he’d been around. He was a beta. Kaer Morhen took in boys and boys alone; usually, they didn’t care what he was: an alpha or a beta.

Gweld rolled his eyes. “I’d cut my own cock off if that happens. Eat it, too, if he turns omega.”

That was even more unlikely. Reven didn’t look like he could be anything but an alpha, and it would be the best thing for him. They all _knew_ about omegas, here, but it was mostly from odd stories of conquest the older Witchers talked about in the mess hall. Omega boys were extremely rare, though. The ones the Witchers talked about were pretty ladies in taverns and whorehouses. If there’d ever been an omega in Kaer Morhen, Geralt and Gweld knew nothing of it.

“What do you think would happen?” Geralt inquired.

Gweld shrugged. “Probably throw him back out on the streets, or something. Give him back to his shite parents, maybe. Wasn’t he a child surprise?”

Geralt watched as Reven successfully parried a blow. Good for him. “Think so.”

The going rumor was that Reven had been a child of surprise, but even if he weren’t, his parents would have thrown him out, anyway. That was the rumor, and as much as Geralt didn’t care for Reven, he cared even less for the rumor. It didn’t seem to do him justice; he was arrogant, sure, and certainly blessed with a vile tongue, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be thrown out. Geralt had been thrown out, and the brightest parts of him still hoped he hadn’t deserved it.

They watched in relative silence, after that, with only the occasional banter between them. Reven was eventually sat back down in much the same shame Geralt had been. Then, it was time for the rest of the boys. With demonstration officially over, they were all included in the order to stand up and practice on their own. They would take turns with the training dummies, and Vesemir would wander between their neatly lined rows and correct their mistakes.

It was perilous and taxing, but Geralt was always glad they did it in the morning. Even for being as high up in the mountains as they were, the heat could still take its toll. It was better to do it when the air was crisp and cold, then warm up later with the sun.

Eventually, training came to an end. For now. It never really ended. They just shuffled between instructors, between groups, until things started to happen. This particular session was over, and it ended on a rather sour note where almost no one had done the job Vesemir expected of them. Despite that, the show continued.

“We’ll begin sparring tomorrow,” Vesemir said, and if not for the stern look he kept on them, the boys might have all erupted into cheers. “Too many angry faces out there, today. If you won’t work on your own, then maybe you’ll beat each other into some progress. Get on with it, then,” came his dismissal. “Geralt, you come with me.”

“Good luck.” Gweld elbowed him. “Don’t get your ass chewed too bad. Thought it might be fun to go beat each other up ahead of schedule when we get some downtime.”

Geralt just gave a vague nod and pushed Gweld off. Gweld went with the rest of the boys while Geralt stepped up to Vesemir. They waited until the boys had all gone, but they didn’t move from that spot. Once it was just the two of them, Vesemir folded his arms and all but glared Geralt down.

“You’re a bit in the clouds today, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” Geralt muttered. “I don’t mean to let it interfere with—”

“Cut the excuses, Geralt.” Vesemir sighed and put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to lead him off to the side. The sun was going to crest, soon; it wasn’t worth it to stand out in the open. “What’s on your mind?”

Geralt folded his arms. “I’m worried about Eskel. You said he was sick.”

Vesemir hesitated, but he nodded. “He should be fine. A bleeding heart has no place on the battlefield, Geralt. I understand you care for your friends, but you mustn’t let that get in the way of your training.”

Geralt nodded. “Yes, Master. I understand.”

“Good. Off with you, then. Go and join the other boys. If it will ease your mind for the day, know that Eskel is under my care.”

Geralt nodded, again, and bid Vesemir farewell. He ran off to catch up with the others, and left Vesemir standing there. His worry was in no way quelled, but he at least had the knowledge that Eskel wasn’t _dying_. Didn’t sound like he was presenting, either.

Vesemir sighed and let his arms drop. There wasn’t so much as an ounce of free time in his schedule, not with so many young pups to train, but he had to make time for this. He’d spoken to one of the mages about it before training had commenced, and he was once again ready to discuss it again. Vesemir was an instructor of the sword and the sword alone; he knew what he needed to know in order to survive, but when it came to more difficult brews and magics, he still needed help.

He headed off towards the alchemy room. Ludyn had been the one to assist him that morning, and Ludyn would, without a doubt, still be pouring over the question at hand. Ludyn was a trustworthy mage. The two of them had traveled together from time to time back in the days when Vesemir still hunted outside of Kaer Morhen. Now, they were both relics with knowledge, which meant they were needed within the walls. There wouldn’t have been another mage Vesemir would have trusted with this issue.

When he found Ludyn, there were enough vials and ingredients stacked up in the space surrounding that Vesemir hardly believed the mage was there, at all. There was the familiar and potent smell of a familiar and friendly alpha which proved his musings to be incorrect. There was just a lot of mess, and it was a mess associated with being asked to do something that had hardly been done before. Still, as Vesemir approached the table, he saw what no doubt was a brewing potion.

“Can I ask what this is about?” Ludyn huffed, glaring at Vesemir with an unparalleled annoyance doused in brown eyes.

“It’s best you not know,” Vesemir admitted. “Did you make any progress?”

“Oh, lots. I’ve got just the thing you’re asking for. There wouldn’t be a better mage suited to do it, you understand. Especially not one whose silence could be bought with anything other than death. I expect something decadent in return, Vesemir.”

Vesemir scoffed.

Ludyn had long brown hair always wound up in a braid or fanciful knot of some sort. Kept it out of the way of the work. Then there were those eyes, beautiful and brown. He had darker skin, pale lips and palms. He worked with a diligence unfathomable, and Vesemir admired him for it. Admired him for the skill of his craft, as well. There had been a number of times where Ludyn had pulled him out of a stick situation; this would just be another item on the list.

“I’m serious,” Ludyn said. “What do you need this for, anyway? A potion that stops presentation?” Ludyn frowned. “This could get you in serious trouble, Vesemir. Serious, serious trouble.”

“I’m aware.”

“Who are you hiding?” Ludyn asked. He stared at Vesemir for a long time before it seemed to dawn on him. “One of the—?” One of the boys. “No. The less I know, the better. You’ve always been a friend, Vesemir, but I am not going down this rabbit hole with you.”

“I’ll need more potions,” Vesemir said, his voice oddly fond. Ludyn could be as angry as he wanted, but most everything he said was for looks alone.

“Just let me know when,” Ludyn said, and Vesemir knew he would. Ludyn didn’t look at him when he agreed to this little tryst, but he’d agreed, nonetheless. Not knowing what Vesemir needed them for was enough armor to keep him safe from whatever retribution might befall from this. For all he knew, it was just another Witcher experiment. They had many; too many.

They talked of idle things while Ludyn made final preparations with the potion. They talked of ingredient gathering, of the trials. There was much to discuss, and yet so little. It all felt like work, because it was, and then there was nothing. The potion was finished; once it was properly bottled and corked, Ludyn handed it right over.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“I don’t, but I thank you.”

Ludyn snorted. “Why am I not surprised? Get out of here before someone sees.”

Vesemir gave an odd chuckle, but he left. He was most likely running late for something, at this point, but he could skip a midday meal if he had to. He had something far more important to attend to, and that was up in the towers where his room was. There were enough scattered rooms in Kaer Morhen that the instructors got their own rooms; some of the older Witchers did, as well. They could trade out depending on who was in Kaer Morhen at the time; the only time they ever had to share was during winter.

The children were kept in the bastion. If Eskel were actually sick, that’s where he would be. Riding out whatever illness he’d contracted in the bastion were a mage might have been taking care of him. Instead, he was holed up in Vesemir’s room with the door locked, because it was the safest place for him to be. Kaer Morhen was a castle, a fortress; it was supposed to be safe everywhere, but it was difficult to remain safe when the very people who might turn enemy are the people trusted to be allies.

Vesemir approached his own door and knocked three times. After a pause, he knocked twice. There was a long moment where Vesemir thought that Eskel hadn’t heard him, but the lock clicked. In the time it took Vesemir to open the door, Eskel had hurried back to where he’d been the entire morning. Vesemir could only see the top of his head peeking out from atop the bed, which was missing a fur.

While Eskel was one of their more promising recruits, he was small. In height, he matched the boys quite well. It was in stature that he lacked, and that was what had Vesemir concerned in the beginning. His concerns had only increased when he noticed just how caring Eskel was turning out to be. That wasn’t a bad thing; in fact, Vesemir might even say it was an enviable trait to have, but it just wasn’t an _alpha_ trait. This morning had only validated his concerns.

Eskel had come to him nearly in tears that something didn’t _feel_ right. He was young, but still in the right age for a presentation to occur. The question had made Vesemir a bit sick in the stomach, given Eskel’s young age, but he had to know. They didn’t exactly make a habit out of checking their child surprises’ genitals when they got them. If it was a boy, they took it. Omegan boys were so rare, the chances of picking up were almost none. But Vesemir had to ask.

Learning that Eskel was an omega—but not just an omega, an omega about to present—had terrified Vesemir. Kaer Morhen had a history of exactly two omegas, and neither were alive. The first one had died from too much stress on the body; an omega at Kaer Morhen could never finish the trials, never complete the Witcher training. That’s not what they did with them; stress was an easy enough killer to any normal man. The second one, though, had taken something. They had never figured out which mage had given him the potion, only that it killed him. And he wanted it.

That was a fate Vesemir wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially not Eskel. Vesemir had taken Geralt under his wing from the moment he’d brought Geralt to Kaer Morhen—a baby. Eskel had simply joined the shade as he and Geralt grew up and became friends. Against his better judgment, Vesemir cared for these boys like they were his own. As good as an omega could be for the future of Witchers, he wouldn’t see that future for Eskel. That landed him here.

He walked across the room, once the door was tightly shut and locked again. On the other side of the bed, what Vesemir already knew was once again confirmed as he saw the little nest that Eskel had built for himself. He was sitting on the floor, blankets and furs wrapped around him. His knees were pulled to his chest, arms folded atop of them for a place to rest his head. He didn’t look comfortable, but it didn’t matter, because he was surrounded by scents that he knew. Geralt’s shirt in the pile did not go unnoticed.

“Eskel,” Vesemir said, dropping down to a knee, “I have something for you.”

Eskel flinched, but he looked at Vesemir. “What is it?”

Vesemir presented the potion. “I’m sure it tastes of ass, but it’ll postpone this.”

Eskel looked at the potion, then looked to Vesemir, gulping down some lump of nervousness. “Why is this so bad?” Eskel asked. He took the potion with haste, regardless, eager to stave off the uncomfortable feeling that plagued him.

“The Wolves have not been kind to omegas in the past,” Vesemir said; it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth, either. He wouldn’t be able to stomach telling the truth to a child. “If you keep with the potions, they’ll think you a beta. Plenty of beta Wolves, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Eskel nodded. He finished the potion with one heady gulp and handed the empty vial back to Vesemir. He resumed the same position, arms wrapped around his knees. The poor boy looked terrified. Vesemir wouldn’t make that fear worse, if he could help it. This would work.

“Once you pass your Trial of the Dreams, it won’t matter. Do you understand? At that point, you could even stop with the potions, and no one could harm you.” The Dreams wouldn’t take away the fact that he was an omega; it wouldn’t make the heats stop, nor would it change Eskel’s scent, but it would make him sterile. He couldn’t be used.

If he didn’t survive the trial, the problem was still solved.

“Eskel, I need you to listen to me.” Vesemir sat down on the floor beside the nest but did not touch. “If these feelings return, you must come to me. I will cover for you as best I can.”

Eskel didn’t respond. He just tightened himself into a smaller ball.

“Answer me, Eskel. Will you come to me?”

Eskel nodded. “Can—can I tell Geralt?”

“You can tell no one.” Vesemir shook his head as he spoke. “I know you trust Geralt, and I know he is your friend, but the less people know about this, the better.”

“Okay.” Eskel swallowed, then. “When do I have to go back?” To the bastion, he meant.

“By the evening. I won’t make you return until you feel yourself again, but you can’t stay the night in here.”

“I understand.”

“May I?” Vesemir asked, raising up his hand. Eskel looked at him and nodded, a clear acceptance of touch. Vesemir rested his hand on Eskel’s shoulder, then, giving him a firm and reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be alright, Eskel. Witchers have hidden secrets for longer than you’ll have to hide this.”

For that, Eskel even offered a smile. Already, he was beginning to feel better. He’d been so overtaken with an uncomfortable heat that he’d been unable to think about anything for _hours_. Everything had gotten strange, after that. There’d been something slick between his thighs, these heady sort of smells. He’d been sweating even before the sun had come up. This potion, even after only minutes having passed, had gotten rid of everything. He felt like himself again. Just himself.

After a long bout of silence, Eskel finally shifted. He looked at Vesemir, tilting his head to rest his cheek against his arms.

“Thank you,” he said.

Vesemir squeezed his shoulder once more before dropping his hand away. “You’re quite welcome. As I said, you come to me should this feeling return. Stay here as long as you need, but not a moment longer.”

Eskel understood, and he said as such. With that, Vesemir had other things to do. As much as he might like to sit in here all day and ignore his responsibilities, that wasn’t an option. Eskel needed this time to himself, too. At the end of the day, he would find himself back in a room full of potential alphas just waiting to present. It wouldn’t be an easy situation to cope with, even with the help of the potion. Eskel’s body was clearly ready; as much as Vesemir hoped that the potion could prevent that, there was no way to have tested it beforehand. All they had was a prayer.

Eskel stayed right where he was for what felt like ages. It hadn’t been any longer than an hour; he could only imagine what excuses Vesemir would have to come up with on his behalf, but he appreciated it with a full heart. He didn’t quite understand, nor did he really know the consequences of his simple existence, which made it particularly difficult to understand why Vesemir was so intent on keeping him hidden. At the threat of violence, however, of which there had been, Eskel was more than happy to keep himself a secret.

The potion made him feel better, too. He hadn’t enjoyed the way he woke up, and he knew from Vesemir’s instruction alone that the only reason he was able to hide in plain sight was because he appeared to be the first boy to present—or try to. The potion would ensure that he didn’t. He’d come straight to Vesemir, which meant no other Witcher who might have been able to smell him had been able to. He was going to be safe, like this, and with the potion settling nicely, however vile it’d tasted, Eskel chanced standing.

His legs were shaky, but not as unstable as they’d been this morning. He needed a change of clothes as bad as he probably needed a bath. None of the other boys would see his stained trousers and think anything more than he’d gotten off in the privy while on _bed rest_. He would be fine. The only thing he worried about, really, was the fact that he’d taken one of Geralt’s shirts. He remembered how it was the first thing he’d grabbed the moment he’d decided he had to see Vesemir about his _problem_.

He’d been clutching it like a child when he saw Vesemir. Now, it was playing a role in his makeshift nest, which he then began to diligently take apart. He couldn’t just leave the mess there on Vesemir’s floor for him to clean up later. That wasn’t a kind thing to do for the man sticking his neck out for him. Everything went right back where he’d found it, save for the shirt. Eskel bundled it up in his arms and tried not to feel _shame_ as he pressed it into his face.

The potion diluted the smell, some. All of his senses had been waiting to spring forth to life, and he’d prevented it. But still, through the fog, Eskel could smell Geralt. Could smell him everywhere, and it filled him with such a pang of emptiness that he almost did feel guilty. Geralt was his friend. His closest friend. What an awful way to treat him, stealing his things to scent them and imagine what could be. Geralt would never look at him like that.

“Enough,” he muttered to himself, pulling his face away from the shirt. He should return it, but he couldn’t fathom an excuse good enough to do so.

He bundled the shirt up so it would be easier to hide, then left Vesemir’s room as quietly as he could. It still wouldn’t be good of him to get caught; he was supposed to be lying despondent in bed with some illness bad enough to keep him from training. Being up and walking about the grounds was a surefire way to out himself. He hurried down the stairs, hurried through halls and arches, all to get himself back to the bastion before anyone spotted him.

The bastion was empty, which wasn’t abnormal. It was still daytime; the other boys would be out training. It was all they did. Day in and day out, hardly any time for rest. This was one moment of peace, and Eskel was going to take it. Already, he’d decided he wasn’t going to return Geralt’s shirt. There was no excuse to explain why he had it, so why not just keep it? Geralt wouldn’t notice it was gone. And if he did, well. Eskel would figure that out later.

He shoved the shirt into his pillow, then set to changing his clothes. He’d hide his sweaty and soiled clothes until he had a good chance to go out and wash them. Might he even take them to the bath and just do it there. It would be easier, but for the moment, he shoved them beneath his bed. The bastion was empty, and that fact alone had him standing there naked for just a moment. The cool air felt nice against his skin, but even more so, he was curious.

Eskel bit his bottom lip and glanced over his shoulder. The only people he would have to worry about were the mages coming and going, and that was only a maybe. Eskel was alone for at least a few good minutes, and that’s all he needed. There was no heated urge underneath this; just the casual curiosity of a boy who’d never really known he was any different until today. He’d always been like this, small cock heading soft, hairless skin slitted apart where everything was _sensitive_ , now.

He sat himself on the bed, his one and only pillow propping him up against the meager headboard. He spread his thighs apart, knees bent, and settled back into his pillow. Just a touch. He didn’t have a mirror, so he couldn’t _see_ , but he could feel. He skirted around his cock. He knew that well enough; he could see it. And he knew it was different because some of the boys had no issue whipping theirs out whenever the time presented itself. Eskel’s was smaller, less defined, and he certainly didn’t have any hanging balls.

No, he had _this_. Soft skin, sensitive skin. He petted through it, spreading himself open and shivering at the way cool air brushed him. It felt strange. When he dipped his finger between his labia, he bit down on his lip again. It felt so different. He couldn’t say if it was good or bad, just that it was _different_. Soft in a way he didn’t quite understand how to describe. Almost sensitive, but not quite. Still just new. Tender. Eskel gasped and pulled his hand away, quickly. Enough of that.

Eskel hurried to get himself dressed, just in case the two or three minutes passed had been much, much longer without him realizing. He didn’t know when the other boys would be back, and he was starting to get hungry. He wouldn’t be able to go to the mess hall for any proper meal, but he might be able to get one of the mages to get him something. There was one that he was sure was quite fond of him; she was a greying blonde by the name of Mariette.

He decided, quickly, that he would go off and find her rather than starve himself for the rest of the evening. The sun was falling, but it was still plenty bright outside. There wouldn’t be any company in the bastion for a few hours, yet so Eskel didn’t have to pretend to be deathly sick until then. He scarcely knew how he would pretend to be sick; they didn’t all sleep in the same room in the bastion, though the few rooms there were, were styled like barracks. It was a game of trust, if Eskel’s roommates could keep a secret.

He found Mariette pouring over a large book, working diligently on things he would never understand. Witchers learned magic, but not _that_ kind of magic. They weren’t so good at it, though Mariette had always told Eskel he might have been a mage in another life. He didn’t know what she meant, but he liked the way she smiled so fondly at him. She was an older woman with graying her and laugh lines; they made her look happy, even when things were not necessarily always as such. Really, she reminded him of his mother, whom he scarcely remembered outside of a scent and a song.

“Well, hello there,” Mariette said; she hadn’t looked away from her book, because she didn’t need to. She was an alpha with a particular skill at hiding it. “I’d heard you were quite ill, yet here you are?”

“I was hungry,” Eskel replied, sheepishly.

Mariette looked up at him, resting her head atop her folded hands. “When did you eat last?”

“Last night.” Eskel looked at the floor, embarrassed with himself. He wasn’t good at keeping up with things.

“Growing boys have to eat, you know. It isn’t good, especially not with such a dreadful illness. Your cough sounds dreadful.”

Eskel gave a light smile. She may not know the reason why he was supposed to be sick—Vesemir would keep it a secret—but she was still on his side. She wouldn’t turn him over for lying, especially not if Vesemir had been the one to explain that it was a lie.

“Come,” Mariette said, standing from her work. “Let’s get you back in bed, and I’ll scour you something to eat. Does that sound like a deal?”

“I appreciate it.”

“Of course, of course.” Mariette grinned and ushered Eskel out of the room.

Just as Mariette promised, she sent Eskel straight back to bed. She even took the time to tuck him under the scratchy furs they had, feeling over his forehead like he really _was_ sick. His face was still round with baby fat, but she always told him what a handsome man he would grow into. Always kind. She was kind to all the boys, and most of them needed it. She even took his soiled clothes from beneath his bed, having smelled them better than any alpha would have.

She promised to wash Eskel’s clothes and return them, then she left. She was gone for a total of fifteen minutes before she returned, wet clothes and a wooden plate of dry meat, cheese, and day-old bread. She handed Eskel the plate before retreating to the end of his bed, where she hung his clothes to dry.

“The rest of the boys will be returning, shortly,” she said. “Do try to look a bit sicker than that, would you? You’re smiling like a puppy.”

Eskel couldn’t help himself, and he wouldn’t. “Thank you for the food,” he said. “And—”

“Yes, yes. I’ve seen enough of you boys to know what happens this time ‘round. Next thing you know, four of you will be going into a rut all at once.” She rolled her eyes, rather fondly. “It’ll be a menace, that’s what.”

Eskel barely managed to swallow his urge to tell her that he wouldn’t be hitting any rut. It was only by Vesemir’s kindness that he hadn’t gone straight into heat. He was sure, if Mariette knew, she wouldn’t tell anyone. However, Vesemir had told him he could not even tell Geralt what he was; if Geralt couldn’t know, then truly, no one could.

“You’ll grow up just fine,” Mariette promised, reaching out to jostle Eskel’s leg by a grip on his foot. “I’ll see you, Eskel.”

“Thank you, Mariette,” he muttered. Truly, he feared that if she knew he was an omega she would baby him more than she already did; not that he wouldn’t appreciate it. It was a nice contrast from the hard, long days in the sun. This was nice.

Eskel picked at his food slowly. He didn’t want to overwhelm himself by eating too fast, though the desire was there to just shove all of it down his throat and call it a night. He forced himself to eat slowly. It wouldn’t serve anyone if this ended up on the floor because he made himself sick.

By the time the door opened, Eskel had only made it through half of his food; it was a good look. Bedridden, struggling to eat. As his roommates joined him once more, he got the looks of sympathy he definitely needed to see to know his acting job was acceptable. There were eight of them in this room, and for the first five, it was just the looks of sympathy. One of them had looked almost jealous, though. Geralt and Gweld approached next; instead of going to their own beds, in which Geralt’s was beside Eskel’s and Gweld’s was across from him, they both came to sit on Eskel’s bed.

“You picked a bad day to be sick,” Gweld said, first. “Should have been sick tomorrow. We’re going to start sparing, but _Varin_ is going to be involved.”

Eskel grimaced. Varin was one of the nastier instructors. Of course, he said that it was all in the sentiment of pressing them into doing their best, but he was downright cruel. He acted too much like an alpha with an anger problem for anyone to believe he was actually just trying to ensure these boys grew up strong. He had the power to act out, and he acted out.

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbled. He reached across the bed to punch Gweld in the shoulder, because he deserved it. Eskel was sick. Or, supposedly sick. The first thing he needed to hear about was not about how his tomorrow would be worse. “Are you alright?” Geralt softened as he looked at Eskel.

“I’m feeling better.” Which wasn’t a lie. Eskel chewed slowly on his stale bread. “I couldn’t even walk this morning.” Also, not a lie.

“That explains why he gets all the special treatment.” Gweld snorted but flinched back fast enough to avoid Geralt’s punch. “You’re an ass. Definitely an alpha.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, and thankfully, was more distracted by Gweld in the moment than he was with Eskel. It gave Eskel that split second in which he could just _stare_. It was natural, wasn’t it? Eskel was an omega—nobody could know, but that didn’t change the fact that he was one. Didn’t omegas instinctively want an alpha? And Geralt was his best friend. He’d always admired Geralt, valued their friendship. This was just instinct, and Eskel was strong enough to stave off instinct.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Geralt asked. “You’re red.”

That just made everything worse. Eskel stuffed himself on a block of cheese and slid down the bed. Geralt didn’t know the half of it. Red with embarrassment, hiding Geralt’s own stolen shirt in his pillow. The last thing Eskel needed was Geralt doing that thing where he very obviously _cared_. Geralt was very particular with who he cared about; that much had never been up for doubts. And he did care. Right now. About the fact that Eskel was sick—Eskel had to remind himself that that’s all it was. He was sick. Very, obviously sick.

Boys were not supposed to lust over their best friend, omega or not

Eskel frowned at himself. “I’m alright,” he decided. “I should be up for training tomorrow.”

“Well, good,” Gweld chimed in. “Gonna need the damn support. Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow? Bets already placed that Geralt and Reven fuck each other up during sparring.”

Eskel laughed, perfectly time with swallowing more than he should have so he choked on a crumb of cheese and coughed. Sick. After that, he had Gweld at one side and Geralt at the other, with Geralt patting his back a bit harder than he might have otherwise. Help him cough—help him _not_ choke, even if Geralt didn’t need to know the difference.

“Lucky if we get sick,” Gweld muttered. “Don’t want to deal with tomorrow’s shit.”

Eskel just coughed, trying to clear his throat.

“We’ll be fine.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

Gweld shrugged. “Best make sure we get some sleep, then. Wonder boy here probably needs his rest.”

Eskel gave a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Gweld waved himself off, first. He crossed the room and crawled into his own bed, hiking up the blanket so high that his head was nearly gone. All that remained was a tuft of bright orange hair right above the line. Geralt stayed right where he was for a minute, with his hand still resting on Eskel’s back.

“Reven was spewing crap at dinner,” Geralt said. “About you.”

“Let him. Doesn’t matter, and he’s probably right. Lying in bed all day does nothing but make me feel weak and useless.”

Geralt frowned. “Better to sit in bed and rest than get yourself killed because you couldn’t handle something.”

Eskel finished his plate, and Geralt took it from him. It was a kind gesture, but not enough for Eskel to not fold his arms and frown.

“Witchers don’t get sick days.”

“You’re not a damn Witcher yet,” Geralt snapped. “Take a sick day while you can have one. Please.”

Eskel softened, instantly. Please? Did Geralt want him to rest _that_ badly that he was going to start throwing around proper begging? That was strange. Eskel didn’t know exactly what it meant, but it settled strangely in his chest. He wished Geralt wouldn’t look at him, like that. Whatever that look was, it made everything worse.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Eskel muttered. “Promise.”

Geralt accepted that. He had a better lecture prepared, but Eskel didn’t want to hear it as much as Geralt didn’t want to give it, so it was left unsaid and hanging in the air. Geralt offered nothing more than a pat on the shoulder before he finally got off Eskel’s bed and moved to his own. They were about to get a shrill call that it was time for the lanterns to die, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No problems in this chapter boys. all safe for reading
> 
> if you're already craving more, check out my tumblr in the end notes

Varin was in charge of sparing, because he was the designated instructor for the boys in the bastion. This was a normal day, and normal days were worse and unwanted. Varin was no kind man; he barked, and he snapped like any alpha without a clue how to control himself. Varin might have had a clue, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t pick on people his own size, so he made a life out of harassing the boys who couldn’t pick back. Which was all of them. One step out of line, one _word_ , and the punishment could have been immense.

These were the days where they did not leave the bastion, even as they left their rooms. This was where they trained day in, day out. Yesterday had been special, and that was only because of the turn of spring. New talks to give the boys. They would stay at the bastion until they could pass the Trial of the Grasses, but as they presented and proved themselves more capable of control, some of them would be granted better training, better instructors. There would still be screaming, but none of _this_.

Varin grabbed a boy by the arm—Colin, a black-haired boy with dark skin and only eleven—and yanked him from the wall. The wall was for balance, of which Colin had none. Varin, fed up with the boy’s inability to perform any better now than he had been performing a week ago, nearly threw him straight to the ground in a fueled rage. Colin had balance here, enough to weeble and wobble until he caught himself from falling straight into the mud; he should have just let himself fall.

“What was that!?” Varin shouted. “Swaying back and forth like you’re no better than a drunken tavern whore! We’ll send you off to run the Trail if you can’t work this out. You’ve got enough of it to not fall on your ass, so _use_ it. You put some backbone into this training, or you won’t see the end of it!” Varin surged forward and pushed Colin right down, a hard oomph to the chest. Colin fell back, then, and the mud splattered.

“And the rest of you!” He boomed, turning back to face where training had come to an unfortunate standstill, everywhere. “It’ll be laps and push-ups from the lot of you if there’s nothing done!”

The echoing sound of clanging training swords immediately returned. _Real_ swords came later, when they had enough skill not to accidentally kill each other. Varin made that call, and that morning, several boys had been disappointed to hear that they weren’t just openly allowed to kill each other like that. Weaker boys shouldn’t even become Witchers, they thought, but the Trials would take care of that. They didn’t need to do it to each other.

Geralt turned back to his own sparring partner. Gweld had been right, and Geralt was standing just feet away from Reven, of all people. Reven, who had his blond hair all tied back in a mock bun like he actually had enough hair to do that with, was glaring at Geralt. Something about it was a bit sadistic, a smiling glare. Smirking. They were always told to train together, because else, they would only ingrain their mistakes. Geralt would rather train alone than do this, mistakes and all.

Reven struck first, because he _always_ struck first. He always came forward with his non-dominant leg and struck to the left, and that first strike was always weak. Geralt parried it easily, then struck back with a flair for his own type of dramatic—the kind that actually worked. He dug his heels into the grass and pushed forward, twisting around at the last second to avoid Reven’s second, stronger strike, to strike again. The blunt of his sword connected with Reven’s side and sent him tumbling.

“What was that?!” Varin shouted, and it was directed at Geralt. “Strike from the wrist, not your elbow!”

Fuck. Fine. Maybe. It wasn’t as if he and Reven ever sparred with the intent of improving; it was more of a mutual dick measuring contest. Geralt should have been better than that, but Reven did nothing but get under his skin. If he struck with his whole damn arm then he would have even more strength, and he could finally wipe that look off of Reven’s face. That smug, stupid look. He thought he was so much better than Geralt, and the way he _talked_ about people just added more coals to the fire.

“Strike with your _wrist_ ,” Reven mocked, hissing the word as Geralt did exactly not that.

They clashed swords between them, pushed back and away. Clashed again. There was no practiced footwork, just two boys throwing their weight at each other. Varin had his eyes elsewhere, shouting at some boy who’d slipped in the mud and lost his footing and his sword. They were no better than angry children, but it felt _good_ when his sword connected to the side of Reven’s face. It felt good when Reven stumbled enough that Geralt got in another strike.

Geralt nearly slipped, himself, but Varin’s shouting from the side kept him upright. His ankle bent, but he was fine. Reven must have seen it, though, because he suddenly lunged forward and aimed only for Geralt’s left side. Geralt’s ankle screamed in protest as he attempted to continue on like nothing was wrong, but he was determined to continue like nothing was wrong. He struck back, again and again, deflecting Reven’s blows and landing just as many of his own.

They weren’t sparring. They were _fighting_. Other boys around the yard were stopping to watch them, which was dangerous. They would catch Varin’s attention soon, but until then, they just lashed out at each other. Gweld was sparing with Gardis, a black-haired boy with pale skin and dark eyes. They _had_ been sparring, at least; they were not anymore. They were among the first to stop their own work at the sound of Reven shouting, lunging forward.

Eskel had been training with another boy, a quiet sort that no one ever really paid attention to. It was the perfect match up; they were both still a bit scrawny. Even they stopped to watch. With so much having stopped, Varin’s eyes followed next. With those eyes, a shouting was sure to follow. He would be able to shout louder than any of them, even as Geralt and Reven screamed and hollered at each other like feral idiots. Varin stalked towards them, ready to scream, to rip them apart and set them to running the Trail until they collapsed with exhaustion.

But he never made it.

Suddenly, all eyes were elsewhere. Even Geralt and Reven stopped their poorly footed attacks when they heard that sound. Something so base and near frightening that everyone had all but frozen. That boy. The quiet one that no one paid much attention to. They rarely even thought of him. Suddenly, he was letting out a blood-curdling snarl and throwing himself forward. He went for Eskel. He went for Eskel and nobody knew _why_ , but Eskel was screaming, scrambling to get away as this boy grabbed at him, scratched, _growled_.

“Back!” Varin shouted, his attention elsewhere. “All of you—get _back_.”

Geralt was the closest, the most at risk of whatever this was. Varin grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back. He stumbled, eyes wide, terrified, right back into Gweld who caught him. Held him, because Eskel was being _attacked,_ and Geralt needed to do something. But he couldn’t. Gweld held him there, saying something, something; but Geralt wasn’t listening. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears and Eskel’s screams.

He was fighting this boy. Trying to get away, but this boy had teeth and sharp nails where Eskel didn’t have anything at all. The boy was only thirteen like the rest of their group; the first to present. It became clear once Varin finally crossed the field in a quick pace. He grabbed Eskel and pulled him back, protective, and let the boy sink his teeth into his own arm instead. Then shook him back, throwing him to the ground with the force of his throw.

“Down!” He shouted. The boy snarled back and threw himself up to his feet, but Varin grabbed him, arm right around the chest, and dragged him until he was throwing the boy right back to the ground.

There was enough space between the boy and Eskel that Gweld’s hold loosened and Geralt shook himself free. He almost hit the ground in his haste, but he pushed himself across the grass and right to where Eskel had hit the ground. They’d all seen it. The bulge in that boy’s breeches had made his presentation obvious; he’d knotted right in his pants, right during the sparring, and then attacked. Varin had acted quickly, and though his screaming, the boy submitted.

“Eskel!” Geralt grabbed for him. “Hey—hey, are you alright?” He wiped Eskel’s hair from his face, really _looked_ at him. His blue eyes. Shaking. Afraid. Breathing hard.

“I’m—” Eskel swallowed. His neck was bleeding where the boy had scratched him. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. He was filled with shame, was what he was, because while everyone else would stand around in circles trying to figure out what had prompted that boy’s presentation to be so _violent_ , Eskel would know. It was his fault. Because he was an omega.

Geralt sighed and relaxed into the mud beside Eskel, kneeling down. “You’re bleeding. We should—”

Eskel shook his head. “You think Varin’s going to let us all go curl up in bed and cry because of this? I’ll take care of it when we’re done.”

“Fine, but you’ll let me look at it.”

Eskel looked at Geralt, frowning. The frown died, because Geralt looked terrified. Concerned. Everything all at once had scrunched up in his face, because Geralt was everything all at once. He didn’t know what to thin, only that watching that happened had been awful. Eskel looked like he was seconds away from being mauled; his shirt was ripped; his neck was bleeding. It was—bad. That’s all Geralt knew. It was bad, and he didn’t want to see it happen again.

“I’m looking at it,” Geralt said again, more firmly. Eskel nodded. He looked back out to where Varin and that boy had been and deflated forward against his raised knee.

“Do you think they’ll all be like that?” He asked. He could see Geralt out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to change anything more. “What if you…?”

Geralt squeezed his shoulder. “They can’t all be like that. They would have told us, wouldn’t they?”

“Or they didn’t want to scare us, so they didn’t give us any details.”

Geralt frowned. “Vesemir would have told me. We’ll be okay. And even if they are—” Geralt stood as he spoke, “—I wouldn’t dare attack you. You should know that.” Geralt helped Eskel up.

“What if you can’t stop yourself?” Why would that boy have had some reason to attack him? Worse, what if Eskel set that off in _everyone_? They would spar, and the latent alpha instincts in some boy would be so overwhelmed at the fact that an omega—because they’d suddenly be able to smell him—was beating him in combat that they just lost their minds.

Geralt shook his head. “Don’t think about it, then.”

There wasn’t time to think about it, because Varin returned a moment later. The boy’s presentation was no reason not to train, and they should have all known that. It was a miracle that Varin wasn’t actually shouting at them, but it was clear from his dishevelment that that boy had given him some trouble as he’d been dragged off.

“You’re with me,” Varin said, approaching Eskel. He grabbed Eskel by the arm and took him off to the side, where he’d been sparring with the boy before everything happened. With a shout, the rest of the boys were sent straight back to sparring, too.

Geralt and Reven re-approached and just stared at each other for a moment. They had each taken their sparring swords back up, ready to continue. They would go until Varin told them all to stop, and after that break, they would go again. A day of training to leave them tired in their beds. The perfect sort of day for one or the other to finally rise above the rest.

But Reven was eying him strangely. There was some glint behind his irises that Geralt didn’t like, because it read a bit too unhinged for his personal tastes. They’d all heard the stories of Witchers being monsters, but Geralt had hoped them stories. Stories came from somewhere, and it was boys like Reven who proved it time and time again.

“Hope I present like that,” Reven said. “Yeah—it’ll be fun. Only, Varin won’t be around to stop me, and I’ll take one big, nasty chunk right out of your neck.”

Geralt snorted, huffed in rage.

“Take a bite right the fuck out of your boy, there, maybe,” Reven said, and Geralt nearly lost it. Reven could threaten him all he wanted, but he would not threaten Geralt’s friends. In a place like this, they were as close to family as he would ever get.

Eskel could defend himself, and Geralt knew that. The boy had caught him by surprise. Eskel wasn’t some weak maiden in need of defending, but by the gods, he could not help himself. Geralt shouted and lunged forward. _This_ time, he struck from the wrist with his feet firm apart and in the ground in the stance that Vesemir had kicked into him. He sent Reven tumbling right to the ground with one strike Geralt followed, rushing forward and dropping in one swift movement, the edge of his training sword right to Reven’s neck.

Defeated.

“That’s how you do it!” Varin shouted. “The rest of you fight more like Geralt, and fuck, you might actually survive out there on the Path.”

Reven’s glare darkened, but Geralt was too proud of himself to notice.

The first moment Eskel had to slip away, he did. It wasn’t much of a masterminded escape, as Varin had ended this session. They would be practicing archery after a midday meal, and Eskel hoped to find what he needed in the mess hall. Who he needed. He was in such a rush that he ignored Geralt’s request that they all walk together. Eskel rushed ahead, rushed away from the group, and made his way quickly into the mess hall before anyone could catch up to him.

He found Vesemir eating rather happily, peacefully, which meant he hadn’t heard anything yet. Eskel would be the one to tell him, because there were now burning questions that needed answers and needed solutions. Though Vesemir was fondly chatting with Barmin—his own friend and mentor, Eskel disregarded what otherwise might have been considered respectful and just hurried right over. He was trying to not be in a panic, but the panic still wore on his face.

Vesemir heard him, then saw him, before Eskel could even figure out how to get the words out of his throat.

“Eskel.” Vesemir’s voice was admonishing. “You’re supposed to—”

“I know. And I’m sorry—I need to talk with you.” He looked at Barmin, then, who was half-interested and half-amused at the situation before him. “Alone,” Eskel added. Then, “desperately.”

“Go on,” Barmin offered. “Food will still be here when you get back, and I could use a lick of quiet.” He winked, teasing, and took a long swig of his drink. It must have just been plain water, because there was no smell.

“Alright. Quickly, then.” Vesemir gestured off to the exit they would use, then followed behind.

They were gone from the mess hall just as the rest of the boys arrived. Their quick departure did not go unnoticed. It left Geralt frowning right at the entrance door to the hall, his arms frowned. He was beginning to think something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite place what.

Eskel stopped in a secluded corner of the castle, where he was sure they would not have been followed or heard. Vesemir understood the nature of this meeting in that moment, and he dropped the stern look on his face. His sole goal was to see these boys well-trained so that they could survive. Even in the cases where it meant scolding, or even screaming at, Eskel and Geralt, Vesemir was willing to make the sacrifice. This wasn’t one of those moments.

“What’s the matter?”

Eskel explained everything. He left out absolutely no detail. They’d been sparring, and all of the sudden, the boy had thrown his sword to the side in turn for lunging at Eskel with sharp claws, grappling hands. Eskel still hadn’t taken care of his wound, and though the bleeding had stopped of its own accord, the blood was still dried and streaked across his neck. Vesemir could see the damage. Eskel’s story continued because something in him _knew_ what had happened.

Even if Vesemir’s potion had prevented a full presentation, Eskel knew that’s what had nearly happened to him. There must have been some things the potion couldn’t prevent, and that’s what had set that boy off. He’d _smelled_ the omega in front of him, and the look on Vesemir’s face told Eskel that this wasn’t some paranoid theory. He was likely correct. The potion could keep his first heat from starting, because that was the only thing Vesemir had foreseen as a problem. Eskel’s scent would pose a different issue.

“Is it going to happen again?” Eskel asked. “Is it even possible that I could set off other presentations like that?”

“Entirely,” Vesemir said. “It’s not unheard of for one boy’s presentation to start another’s. I thought we might avoid the problem with how quickly we stopped yours, but it seems I’m mistaken. Thankfully, this is a problem that’s easier to solve.”

Eskel looked hopeful. This was all sorts of frightening for him; he was just a boy, after all, and he’d been _attacked_.

“Just sit tight here. I’ll be back.” Vesemir patted Eskel on the shoulder, and Eskel did as he was told.

He hunkered down in that corner, leaning up against the cold stone wall, as Vesemir left. He sat there in complete silence, not even the sound of thought to break it, until Vesemir returned. It’d taken him ten minutes to come and go, and as he approached, he had several vials in hand, as long as a small pouch with which to conceal them. Eskel scrambled to stand back up, but Vesemir shook his head. Eskel stayed on the ground, and Vesemir knelt in front of him.

“There are things every young omega has to learn,” Vesemir began. “Even when you pass the Trial of the Dreams, you will still be at risk. This information will keep you safe in here, and out there on the Path.”

Eskel nearly preened at the phrasing. _When_ he passed the trial. Not _if_.

Then, Vesemir got to the most awkward conversation the two of them had ever had. Scent glands. Eskel would have them on his neck, his wrists, and on the inside of his thighs. Vesemir used himself for the demonstration, pointing to each side of his neck and the underside of his wrists. The thighs were a bit more _intimate_ , and they wouldn’t actually matter until Eskel truly went into heat. After he did, those glands would only matter when he was in heat; how he would deal with a heat on the Path was a conversation left for another day.

These vials that Vesemir had brought were to neutralize any scent the glands produced. He had three vials, for now, hoping that it would be enough. It was something that would need to be reapplied throughout the day, thus the pouch. It made for easy concealment and carry.

“I can demonstrate for you, if you like. You’ll need to come closer.”

Eskel came closer. He watched as Vesemir uncorked one of the vials and pressed his finger to the small opening. He flipped the vial, then flipped it back immediately.

“You don’t need much,” Vesemir said. “It’s very potent. There are some monsters that don’t respond well to an alpha’s scent, so we’re given these to assist. An omega’s smell is equally strong.”

Eskel nodded and tilted his head to the side when Vesemir reached for him. Vesemir dabbed that bit of liquid right along the side of his neck, nearly in the junction with his shoulder, then pulled away.

“It feels funny.”

“It’s supposed to,” Vesemir assured. “This will help keep you hidden. When the sense of smell starts to come in, it can be very strong. Your scent is almost nonexistent, but there is every chance the boy caught on. Best be careful.”

Eskel nodded. He took the open vial to then demonstrate that he knew what he was doing. He followed the same movement that Vesemir did, covering the small opening with his finger and doing a quick turnabout with the vial. He did it three times, applying that small dab to the other side of his neck and both of his wrists.

“You need to start wearing higher collared shirts,” Vesemir said, then, and that had Eskel’s brows arching up.

“Why?”

Vesemir tapped the back of his own neck. “Right there, the nape of your neck. Very special, but very dangerous. I’m sure you know about bonds by now, don’t you? They must teach you boys something.”

“I know about bonding.” Eskel frowned. “It can only happen during heat, right? If I don’t go into heat, then it’s not a problem.”

Vesemir nodded and raised up his hands in defense. “Right you are. I won’t bother with it, then. The higher collars will still help block the scent, best you see to it. It’s not a suggestion.”

“Fine. I understand.” He was put off about the whole thing.

The nape of his neck was _special_ ; he’d known just where Vesemir’s talk was going to go, and while thankful that no words had been shared, was still unhappy the thought had even arisen. The nape of the neck on _anyone_ was especially weak. If Vesemir’s point had been to say that Eskel should take special care to protect his nape because it was _special_ , then it was best Eskel not have to hear any of it. It was true that significant damage to the area could prevent a bond from ever taking, but that would have just been fine.

There was only one person that Eskel would ever consider forming a bond with, and that was a nonstarter. Impossible. It would just be better not to worry about it; better he cut it up himself than have to spend the rest of his life wearing one of those awful collars they put omegas in. Eskel had no interest in waiting around on what ifs. There was no _what if_ he met _the one_ later in his life. There was no _what if_ he changed his mind, later. The Path wouldn’t allow him a normal life anyway, which made his neck a liability.

Eskel softened instantly when Vesemir spoke again. He even felt bad for making the assumption that he did, even if it was a fine way to find his resolve.

“The area can produce its own scent,” Vesemir said, quietly. “Often, it doesn’t. It might be a waste to apply the oil with how small the chance is, but a higher collar could at least help prevent an escape. That’s all I meant.”

Eskel just nodded to that, a bit dumbly. “Are bonds still possible after the Trial of the Dreams?”

“Very much so, and not advised. It won’t stop your heat. You can suck down potions the rest of your life if it suits you. Plenty of omegas suppress it.”

For that, Eskel couldn’t blame them. When he survived the Trial of the Dreams, he would take a knife to the back of his own neck. No bond, no problem. He would be a Witcher first, an omega second. People hated Witchers enough as it were; being an omega would just make it worse. While he was sure his skills would be honed enough by the time he finally headed out to avoid any stray alpha who thought they might make a proper bitch out of him, removing the possibility altogether was a safer bet. It had no chance of failing.

He just had to make it to the Trial of the Dreams first. He’d do it now if it wouldn’t be a surefire giveaway of what he was. As Vesemir insisted, it was better to hide until nothing could be used against him.

After their conversation finished and Eskel had his new pouch firmly attached to his belt, they headed back down towards the mess hall. Eskel still needed to manage to get some food down before the day continued; he wouldn’t get any free passes on his training just for having an empty stomach. If anything, Varin would just make him work harder.

Eskel got a meager bit of food and hurried over to where he saw Geralt and Gweld sitting; they were easy to spot with Gweld’s bright orange hair sticking out of the top of everyone. Geralt’s hair was brown, and he blended in with half the Witchers, half the boys, and half the tables. Eskel could always find him, though, always looking. It didn’t go unnoticed, either, how Geralt was painfully and obviously saving him a seat, as he was trying his best to take up the space of two boys on the bench.

Geralt shifted, instantly, when Eskel approached. He moved to one side, leaving Eskel a space to sit between him and another boy. Gweld was on the other side of Geralt, stuffing his face with meat. Once Eskel was settled Geralt looked at him for a long moment before deciding he could go back to eating, and the stare was also not unnoticed. Eskel just didn’t know what to think about it. How often did Geralt just stare at him like that?

“Is everything okay?” Geralt asked.

“You worry a lot about a lot of things,” Eskel responded.

“Just you,” Geralt muttered, quickly spooning glop into his mouth to cover that comment right up.

“Everything’s fine. Just had to talk to Vesemir about something.”

They ate in relative silence, and they ate quickly. Geralt still intended to clean up Eskel’s wound. He wouldn’t let Eskel out of it simply because he decided to eat too slowly. They even left their plates with Gweld to take care of, and he had no problem with it. He was more interested in talking to Gardis, sitting across from them, to even refuse the request, anyway. He just stacked his plate on top of theirs and continued on with his conversation. Geralt and Eskel left.

Geralt took proper care of the wound. He washed it slowly with water and a rag. Eskel let it happen, too. He let his eyes close and tilted his head to the side a bit farther than he meant to. A bit far enough that it might have even been considered _submission_ if Geralt had the mind for that. He didn’t, yet, because he hadn’t presented. So far, just that boy and one other had; Geralt explained it happened during the meal, when Eskel was off with Vesemir.

“Do you think you’ll present?” Eskel asked. Geralt finished cleaning away the dried blood and came back with bandages. “Not everyone has to.”

Geralt shrugged. “Figure it doesn’t matter. If I do, then I do. If I don’t, that’s fine. I don’t need to be an alpha to fight monsters.”

Eskel hummed and shifted his head to the side again, baring his neck for Geralt to bandage. The scratch had happened right above his scent gland on the left side of his neck. He’d need to reapply the oil after Geralt left him alone, but until then, he was just enjoying the feeling of Geralt’s hands on him.

“If you were an alpha, though, would you ever…? I mean—with an omega. If you found one.”

Geralt shook his head. “That’d be cruel.” Because it would be. Once they were Witchers, they would live for ages. It wouldn’t be right to bond with an omega out there, human, and tie them to someone they could never truly have. One who would outlive them, too.

All Eskel heard was that Geralt had no intentions of bonding _any_ omega. It clenched up in his chest right in time for Geralt to pull his hands away. Eskel was bandaged and ready to go back to training, and that’s all it had meant. Everything at once, though. Eskel just looked at Geralt. Geralt looked at him, but he was unreadable as ever. Did Geralt know what he was doing? Was it all accidental and Eskel was reading into things that weren’t there?

It made sense. They were close, and both of them were right on that teetering point of some biological urge to _want_. Geralt didn’t have to be doing anything for Eskel to see it and still want. It wasn’t fair of him to do that. Not to his best friend. For all he knew, Geralt saw them as brothers.

Geralt did look at him an awful lot, though. With those eyes. Eskel was unsure of what those eyes meant, just that Geralt wore them quite often and quite well. If they were to mean something, in an ideal world where they didn’t tiptoe around everything, would it even be a good idea? A bond could get messy. It could ruin their friendship as much as it could be used against them. It was a bad idea, so Eskel finally just looked away.

Geralt looked on with confusion, but he didn’t say anything. He just offered Eskel a hand to help him stand and was grateful when Eskel still took it. For a moment, he thought that Eskel might refuse the help.

“Do you think you’ll present?” Geralt asked, a strange high pitch in inflection like his voice was cracking.

“I don’t,” Eskel muttered. “Think I’ll just be a beta forever. Make my life easier.”

“We should get to training,” Geralt said, cutting that conversation off instantly. He didn’t like how that sounded, like resignation. Better to just ignore it and pretend he wasn’t aching for something he couldn’t have.

Archery training, signs, and then bed. Two boys failed to parry the blunt arrows being shot, and though nothing was _fatal_ , they were both hit in the face. One in the cheek, hard enough to penetrate, and one in the eye. They were excused. Signs entailed an entirely different type of training, and Geralt never failed to see how Eskel lit up while he learned about these. These were his favorite, which meant Geralt was quite fond of them, too. And then, bed.

Weeks went by and no other boy presented. They trained, and nothing quite like that first one had happened. That boy even returned the day after his rather spectacular exit and apologized to Eskel. Unsure of what had come over him, he saw the whole thing as a vicious, hormone induced assault, and he was ridiculously ashamed for losing control over himself. He didn’t want to be the alpha that couldn’t control himself. While Eskel appreciated the apology, he didn’t blame the boy. He would go right back to being the one no one thought about, as that was where he was happiest.

Four weeks went by and their small group still only had the two alphas. One omega, but Eskel had been good about keeping himself hidden. His life fell into a strange routine where he planned out his bathroom breaks meticulously enough that he could reapply the oil when he needed. In four weeks, he’d barely made it through the first half of the first vial. No reason to be worried. Just a reason to be careful. So far, he hadn’t felt any reason to go back for the potion. The feeling had not returned, but Vesemir had one waiting for when it did.

At five weeks, nothing had changed. They’d spent all day training, once again. Half of them had been set to sparring while half of them minus one had been set to learning techniques with new weapons.

 _A Witcher uses swords, silver or steel_ , Varin had said, _but you must know how to fight with anything_.

The one lucky one not learning to flail with an axe was struggling with the pendulum; spikes at the bottom with one side a straight drop right off the castle walls. Geralt performed flawlessly at it; he always did. Reven had been right behind him. Gweld almost tumbled right off the edge, and would have, if Eskel hadn’t been up next and managed to catch him. Eskel performed what he would call adequate, but Geralt only had praise for him, after. Only ever had praise for him.

Night came hard, though. They were all exhausted and coming back to their beds in the bastion felt a bit like heaven. Everyone collapsed instantly. It was one of those nights were none of the boys wanted to stay up past the lanterns to talk and mess about in the dark. They all just went straight to sleep. All of them except Geralt, who was left in a dark room with the idle sounds of nighttime shifting and snoring. _He_ wasn’t tired. If anything, he was hot and painfully aware, awake.

He shifted in the blankets, pressing his knees together in a way that was altogether uncomfortable. But there was no way to get comfortable. He shifted from his side to his back to his other side, ending up on his stomach which just made everything _worse_. It was like his body was moving without his control. His hips rutted down into the lump mattress, and it was all he could do to hide a strangled groan into his pillow. What the _fuck_ was that? Fire ran through his veins, but more than that, he hurt. Everything ached, from his bones to his skin.

It was like moving his eyebrows hurt, his jaw ached when he parted his lips. He tried to push himself up, but he was suddenly far too weak to move. All he managed to do was flop onto his side, curl in on himself like that might make it better. It didn’t. If anything, Geralt was just hotter. An ache was spreading down through his spine, pooling in his pelvis where he was becoming increasingly aware of his cock, engorged and hot. Thoughts wouldn’t formulate, his breath hardly worked, and Geralt was left just shaking in his smalls, in his bed.

“ _Eskel_ ,” he suddenly gasped, and he would never know if it was because Eskel was suddenly at the side of his bed, or because Eskel’s name was the first one on his tongue when he needed release.

Eskel didn’t say anything, too afraid to wake the rest of the boys. Instead, he reached forward and petted back through Geralt’s brown hair. It was getting longer, and as he sweat, it stuck to his face. That touch was like fire, and Geralt’s hips bucked in response. He grabbed Eskel by the arm gently. It was so different from the boy who’d attacked him, different enough that Eskel didn’t even flinch. He let Geralt’s nails dig into his skin while he just stroked his hair back.

“Am I—?”

Eskel nodded. “Congratulations,” he whispered, “you’re an alpha.”

Geralt shuddered and lurched forward, his whole-body arching in some desperation to find relief, _release_. He could smell something sweet, but gods help him, he couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. He couldn’t focus on anything save the growing arousal, the thickness of his cock, and Eskel. Eskel, right there in front of him. Inches away. Not afraid. Stroking his hair. Fingers that scalded his scalp but were the only comfort he could find in this moment.

“D-don’t go,” Geralt choked. “Please, Eskel, I’m sorry—” he couldn’t finish his thought, not before everything took over again. He closed his eyes, biting down on his lip to muffle the desperate moan that took him. His fingers were wrested up in his blanket, his hips rutting down into the mattress. It was shameful, but Eskel didn’t shy away. He just petted back Geralt’s hair.

This was something Eskel wouldn’t miss for the world. He’d woken up to hear Geralt’s cries and assumed it was some sort of night terror. They happened from time to time, to all the boys. But it wasn’t. It was this. Geralt was presenting right there in his own bed, and the sight of him had Eskel biting down on the inside of his own lip. Want. _Need_. There was such a weak part of him that wanted to reveal his secret right now, but not to just _tell_ Geralt what he was.

He wanted to show Geralt what he was. He wanted to throw his leg over Geralt’s hips and give him a warm place to sink his growing cock, even if it would hurt. Nothing would work properly until Eskel finally let himself present. Knowing that, Eskel still wanted. He wanted to know what Geralt would feel like inside of him. To know him so perfectly and intimately. Eskel had to stop himself right there, because what a thought to think about one’s own best friend.

But Geralt wasn’t far behind him, only his shame was worse. What if Eskel were to present as an alpha? What would that be like? Was it wrong? Did it matter? Would Geralt even _care_ if Eskel could look at him and just say yes? Eskel being there was helping. Helping so much. There was that sweet scent, the heat of his fingers against Geralt’s scalp. Geralt let his eyes close, let his mind take him wherever it would as the pleasure coursed through his body.

“Eskel—”

But Eskel shushed him, goaded him on. Told him how _good_ he was doing. Geralt wouldn’t believe it. There he was, images of his best friend spread out before him in his mind, naked and flushed, and rutting his own cock into the mattress as everything started to crest, turn white. He hated it. Hated how underneath it all was this unfamiliar desire to take and take and destroy. An alpha’s cock. An alpha’s aggression. The strength would come, too. The senses. The smell, the sight.

Geralt came in his smalls with a strangled groan, reaching down to squeeze at his cock as it suddenly _ached_. His first knot, growing for no reason and for nothing. Red-faced and tired, Geralt rut into his own hand until the pleasure died down. The knot didn’t, but he at least slumped back into his bed with heavy breaths. Eskel was still stroking his hair, and Geralt didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop. It was too nice. Comforting. Just like that sweet smell he couldn’t quite place.

“Good,” Eskel said. “Do you want some new clothes?”

Geralt nodded. “Just—in a minute,” he said, and Eskel understood. He stayed right there, stroking his fingers back through Geralt’s hair, until Geralt was ready to move.

It took a full ten minutes before Geralt was ready, as it took ten minutes for his knot to die and his cock to soften. Then, though it was strange to move and every shift just threatened _sensitive_ , Geralt sat at the edge of his bed. Eskel finally pulled away then, quick not to actually _look_ at Geralt, mostly naked and covered in sweat. Eskel dug through the chest at the end of Geralt’s bed and found him new smalls and a large shirt to wear, which he passed along to Geralt.

“My bed is disgusting,” Geralt muttered. It was dark enough that Eskel couldn’t really see much of anything, but he turned around out of politeness’ sake as Geralt changed his smalls.

“You can sleep in mine,” Eskel responded with a whisper, closing his eyes tightly. Bad idea, he told himself. Worst idea he’s ever had.

“As in share?” Geralt was gawking.

“We used to share all the time when we were boys.”

“I just presented—”

“And I haven’t.” A half-truth. Eskel’s body was struggling with it now. His thighs were shaking. He was worried, now, that Geralt’s sudden rut might have set him off again. He’d see Vesemir in the morning. “It’s not a big deal, Geralt. I could be a beta.”

Geralt pulled on the over-shirt and sighed. “It does sound nice,” he grumbled, too quiet for Eskel to hear him.

“What?”

“I agreed to sharing.” Not a lie. Eskel didn’t need to know how the idea of sharing a bed excited Geralt.

“Go on, then.”

Eskel made it look like he was simply adjusting the pillow, but he was pulling the shirt he’d stolen out, instead. In the dark, it was easy to be sly. While Geralt changed beds, Eskel was able to shove Geralt’s stolen shirt into his pillow. With what had just happened, that shirt would smell of him for months. Eskel should have had the shame enough not to do something like this, but he couldn’t control himself. Once the shirt was significantly hidden, Eskel crawled back into his own bed.

They had shared a bed all the time when they were younger, but they weren’t so young anymore. They were bigger, and the two of them didn’t fit in this bed anymore without touching _somewhere_. They eventually settled where Eskel’s back was to Geralt’s, and they were pressed together from shoulder to foot. Something about it should have been more embarrassing than it was, but it was just comfortable. Warm. Geralt could still smell that sweet thing in the air.

When morning came, Eskel woke to find they had shifted in the night. His face was against Geralt’s chest, and Geralt’s arm was draped over his side. That was too much, and though Eskel had only woken moments before they would all be unceremoniously roused from their slumber, he decided a few minutes early wouldn’t hurt anyone. Being this close, pressed together like this, was just too much. Eskel wouldn’t call it a panic, but he pushed, and he scrambled until he was on one side of the bed, ass on the floor, and Geralt hit the other side _hard_.

“Time to get up!” Came a shrill call.

Eskel breathed. He pulled himself up and met Geralt across the bed, who was rubbing the side of his neck from his not so comfortable fall.

“The fuck was that?” He grumbled.

“Sorry,” Eskel breathed the word. Geralt just smiled. Which was an oddly fond sort of way to respond to waking up only after being thrown from a bed. Geralt took it in stride.

Eskel was at least happy to find himself awake and normal. Geralt hadn’t set anything off. Eskel was awake and in his own mind, ready for another day of training. That was all they ever did, after all. All in preparation for when they started off on the Path.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: sexual assault, mention of abortion, general sexism, blood/gore
> 
> Check out my [Tumblr](https://oneofwebs.tumblr.com/)  
> to find out how to get the chapters faster!

By the onset of winter, only one other boy had turned alpha. They had four alphas in their group of twelve and one omega that _still_ nobody knew about. Eskel had gone back to Vesemir only once for a second helping of potion. Two times for the potion, and two official excuses from training on Vesemir’s order. It was looking to take on the life of a routine, but there was nothing Eskel could do about it save hope that no one would notice. So far, no one had. He still had a vial and a half to mask his scent, too.

He made sure to apply it liberally that morning while he was still beneath his covers where no one could see him. Today was the only day in a year they had any time off from training. With all the Witchers returning to Kaer Morhen and the pass snowing over quickly, it was time for a welcome feast. To prepare something of that size, the boys were given the day off to slave away at the kitchen stoves, instead, but it was a welcome day’s work. It would be well rewarded with a night of no curfew.

They would be permitted to stay awake in the mess hall, meet all the Witchers if they so chose. There would be good food and better alcohol—alcohol they’d even be allowed to drink if they so chose. Eskel wasn’t all that interested in the alcohol, but he was interested in meeting the Witchers. He was fascinated with this lifestyle, and knowing all that he could know about it, well. It was as much a personal endeavor as it was one that might save his life. The more he knew about what he would face, the better prepared for it he could be.

When Eskel pulled himself out of bed, the other boys were already getting dressed. Eskel was behind. He had to rush to get himself into something decent; they never had long to get ready. While today was no training day, it still started just as exceptionally early. There was a great deal of food to prepare, and good food always took time. Eskel only stopped once he’d pulled his shirt over his head.

“Where’s Geralt?” He asked Gweld, who was currently trying to lace up the only good pair of boots he had.

“He ran off early.” Gweld shrugged. “Suspect he’s off trying to beg Daddy to let him skip cooking.”

Eskel frowned. “ _Vesemir_ ,” he corrected, “wouldn’t let him out of it.”

“Let’s you out of training.”

“That’s different.”

“Put your damn pants on,” Gweld huffed. He eyed Eskel for a moment before deciding something was just entirely too ridiculous to dignify with his commentary, so he made no comment. No farther than the fact that Eskel was standing there in a shirt and his smalls. “I’m sure we’ll meet him in the kitchens, if you’re so worried about it.”

“I’m not worried,” Eskel muttered, exactly the way someone who was worried would mutter if they were trying to lie about it. Gweld just rolled his eyes and thought it was ridiculous.

They finished getting their clothes on by the time they were called from the room, and then it was straight to the kitchens. They walked in a silent single-file line all the way to their destination. This was one of the only places in Kaer Morhen where there were women. They did the cooking and the laundry, for the most part, and were kept to a separate part of the castle where the only time they ever mingled with the Witchers, or anyone else outside of themselves, was Winter. At that time, there were just too many people in Kaer Morhen to prevent it.

Kaer Morhen didn’t train women as much as it didn’t train omegas. Some of the boys, even given how young they were, were _excited_ to see what waited for them in the kitchen. Pretty little ladies wearing dresses and skirts with their hair let loose to help protect from the winter winds. It was a fine fantasy, especially for the boys already turned alpha. But it was not quite the reality. The first woman they were met by was in charge of the kitchen, and she was a shrewd looking woman with dark hair tied in a bun who smelled just as much like an alpha as a Witcher might have.

She divided them up into groups and set them immediately to tasks. She gave the alpha boys tasks that would keep them quiet, like tenderizing meat and helping to put everything together. It was one of the only things in the kitchen that required movement and strength, so they got to do it. Eskel and Gweld had the esteemed privilege of peeling potatoes and cutting vegetables. The whole kitchen was hot before they’d even arrived, with the fires going to boil water and cook meet. This was a welcome change, being able to sit down and just relax.

None of them needed to be taught how to use a knife. The meal they prepared and the order they prepared it in was exactly the same as it had been the previous hundred thousand winters, and some of the boys had been around to help for several. Even if they hadn’t, knives were just something they were taught how to use. Knives were a weapon any Witcher worth his weight should be able to use. They just weren’t often used for potatoes, more so often skinning animals or stabbings.

“When do we get to the fun part of the evening?” Gweld muttered. He’d already nicked his thumb twice with his knife. Potato peeling was not a skill he excelled in.

“In the evening,” Eskel replied, shooting Gweld a glare. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Always practical. Are you even the _least_ bit excited for tonight?”

Eskel shrugged. “A little. I’ve always liked hearing the stories.”

“Even the ones that make you piss your pants?” Gweld offered a devious grin, and Eskel kicked his shin. They were sitting next to each other, slightly tilted in towards the table where they were working. Though there was a barrel of potatoes in there, Eskel had no trouble with the kick. Gweld tried to kick back but nicked his thumb again.

“Blood potatoes,” Eskel mocked. “I get it. I like it. New plant.”

“I should—”

Gweld was cut off when Geralt arrived, pulling up a stool to the other side of the table. He gave both of them a look before setting out a large cutting board in front of himself. He’d gotten it from one of the younger girls who had set him straight to helping with the vegetables.

“She said you two are slow, and because I’m late, I get the shit job,” Geralt explained.

“Okay, first of all—” Gweld pointed his knife at Geralt as he gestured, “this is the best job in the place. We get to _sit_ , and we aren’t next to a raging fire. Second of all, you’re with friends! Come on, Geralt.”

Geralt snorted, then pointedly looked at Eskel instead of Gweld. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I’m wounded,” Gweld lamented. “I’m actually unwanted, aren’t I?”

Geralt’s smile was warm and fond, but he just shook his head and started chopping carrots.

Geralt didn’t tell them where he’d been, and neither did they ask. It wasn’t particularly important, either. He’d just gone to talk to Vesemir about training, because that was mostly what they talked about. Geralt was good at it, and everyone could see that. By this point, he was even starting to make his name as the best in their group instead of teetering the edge of it with Reven. Reven wasn’t pleased, but Reven didn’t matter so much at the moment. He was still just Reven, while Geralt was an _alpha_.

If Geralt didn’t become the talk of Kaer Morhen within the next year, Eskel in particular would be shocked. He was proficient in everything, and it was clear from just a few moments in the kitchen, that that meant _everything_. Even ladies. There were younger ones in the kitchen, child surprises who couldn’t exactly go anywhere else but didn’t fit the proper bill. They fawned all over him. For his age, Geralt was already rather strapping. Alpha looked good on him.

Every Witcher and boy above the age of ten at Kaer Morhen had undergone the Choice. If they refused, they were not at Kaer Morhen; they had either been killed or sent to other tasks. No one ever truly got away from Kaer Morhen, though death seemed a relatively safe option of escape. They were contracted out to smiths and artisans to make things for the keep. Some of them were still around the keep, helping the ladies with chores. The life of Witcher was removed for them.

For everyone else, the Choice had happened. It had been a grueling long month back in the spring when the boys had all turned ten. For an entire month, they were subjected to a particular diet of mushrooms, herbs, and mosses. Their group had been cut down from twenty to twelve during that time. One boy had refused the trial and the rest of them had died. The training began after that. Most of their food was still laced with these things—mushrooms, herbs, and mosses that they would use in their potions or simply find in their travels. But come the first of the year, the diet returned for a month of quintessential fasting.

The feast was not only to welcome back Witchers but to give the boys a final meal before the new year came. The real Witchers didn’t have to partake in the new year’s merriment if they didn’t want to, because they’d been through enough to prove they could handle it. Every single day as a trainee was proving something to someone, even if it was to themself. Mostly, it was to the instructors. At any point, a boy could die and therefore prove they didn’t have the mettle for this lifetime.

With that being said, the feast was huge. Even if it marked the coming of fasting, no one could deny what a grand excitement it was. The tables were filled to the brim with proper food, and though much of it was still laced through with this diet no one could actually boast they enjoyed, it still tasted like a wonder. There were freshly slaughtered pigs for the table. Soups, stews, and salads. Vegetables roasted over open flame and doused with herbs. There were desserts, made, laid out on a separate table for anyone to enjoy.

There was ale, too. Ale and wine and white gull for the Witchers. The boys weren’t allowed to touch it, unless they were to think themselves brave enough to. They would die and prove themselves without the mind for the life.

Finally, there was a large fire roaring in the grand fireplace to keep the mess hall warm. Witchers had returned from all over the continent. Some had been traveling for days; others had been traveling for months, having found themselves as far south as Toussaint. Witchers traveled slow, because many of them stopped for contracts on the road. Always better to have more coin than less.

Eskel had been to two of these feasts prior, and this was his third. This time, it was all a bit more intimidating. Eskel could smell more than he could have before, and it smelled a lot like unchecked aggression and death. Not every Witcher was violent; most of them weren’t, but the very nature of their lives meant violence. It wasn’t a smell so easily gotten rid of, even if the first thing many of them did upon returning to Kaer Morhen was bathe.

Last year, Eskel had been twelve and much more excitable than he was, currently. He ate his meal in relative silence and had taken little of it. Like normal, he sat beside Geralt. Across from them were Gweld and Gardis, who talked more than they listened, and Geralt cherished them both. Eskel didn’t partake in their conversation, though he heard bits and pieces of it.

“Look at their _swords_ ,” Gardis gawked. “When do we get swords like that?”

“When you can fucking carry them.” Gweld elbowed him in the side.

They bickered like brothers did, and it was amusing to listen to, but even more fun to watch. Geralt got all too much of a kick out of it.

“Gardis, with a sword?” He wondered. “Wasn’t it the very same Gardis who nearly flung a knife straight into Varin’s eye, he had such a bad aim?”

“Fucker deserved it,” Gardis grumbled. “How do you know it wasn’t on purpose? Did you hear what he said to that fucking kid, the other day? What was his name—Alan, Aren, something.” Gardis wasn’t the best with names. “The kid walks off to stop himself from bleeding to death, and Varin makes him take off the bandages and bleed while he trains. Stupid.”

Eskel smiled to himself. Gardis was a bit of a bleeding heart, like the rest of them. Cared too much about the things he shouldn’t care about. It was going to get him into trouble.

“I can wield a knife.”

“Sure,” Geralt agreed. “Well enough to cut yourself some meat.”

Gardis muttered under his breath, something about meat was _good_ and knife-throwing was boring, then shoved a whole chunk of it straight into his mouth. Gweld had to pat his back when he inevitably choked on it. Somewhere in there was a comment to make sure he didn’t die eating, and that Eskel needed to eat before he died. Eskel wasn’t listening, though. There were so many other stories to hear from these Witchers, and he would prefer that to eating.

Still, he managed to scarf down most of his plate before he shoved it off to Geralt. Geralt just took it, tried to ask where he was going, and got nothing in return. Eskel shimmied himself off the bench and decided he was going to go for a walk around the hall, regardless of Geralt’s worry. Geralt might have even asked him to _stay_ , but Eskel was really not going to think about that one.

He resisted the urge to fold his arms. He didn’t want to appear standoffish or afraid. Stretching his legs was no reason to be either of those things, but he was in a room with big, strong people. A good portion of them were alphas. Though he’d had his potion last the feeling arose and had his vials, he was still always afraid someone would be strong enough to smell past it all and know him. Ruin everything for him. Looking as afraid as he felt wasn’t going to save him, so he just sucked in a deep breath and walked.

Most of the stories shared were just about slaying monsters and lifting curses. A few of the stories were about different bedfellows. Some of the Witchers didn’t seem to care who they pulled into bed with them. One was even boasting how he’d shoved his knot into another alpha, made the poor lad scream, and then got off on it. There was one story at the end of long table that got Eskel’s attention, and it was the perfect story to stop and listen to.

He had a tankard in his hand, only a third of the way filled with ale, and leaned up against the wall. He was within ear shot, and the ale made the story settle easier.

“You know how many people out there try to cover up their damn slaving with _contracts_?” The Witcher snorted. “I don’t hunt down people, but I was down in Redania, and that’s exactly what they were trying to get me to do. Some omegan brat ran off. Maybe it’s not slaving, but the way they throw some of these kids around is gross.”

Another Witcher didn’t seem to agree with that statement. Omegas were there for breeding and fucking; they didn’t do anything else. That thought made Eskel a bit sick, but he listened on.

“Whatever. Bitch was pregnant, anyway. Apparently, she’d run off from Kerack. Tracked her down to Redania and were trying to pick her back up, send her back home to the fucker who beats her and still expects her to have his kids.”

“Nobles.” The argumentative Witcher just shrugged. “You actually find the kid?”

The first Witcher nodded. “Total accident. Found her sitting in her own goddamn blood. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen.”

Another shrug. Because that’s just what happened. This young omega girl gets sold for wealth and power under the table, because even by common standards, sixteen was too young to be marrying off, and then did whatever she could do to protect herself. That included aborting her own baby if it meant she’d see another day. Anything to survive. A girl that young would better survive an abortion than she would childbirth. The whole thing was sick, and the fact that _only_ the Witcher telling the story seemed to believe that didn’t bode well.

That same Witcher was also the one who caught Eskel staring. Having had enough of his brothers in arms, the Witcher excused himself for a pint of ale, but didn’t actually go and get one. His brothers immediately lost themselves to the next conversation, something about an ostentatious brothel in Aedirn that had the best cunts on the continent.

“You might want to stop the ale,” the Witcher said, coming to lean against the wall a safe distance away from Eskel. “Looks like it’s about to make you sick.”

Eskel sputtered but shook his head. “No—No, I was. I heard your story,” he said, slumping into the stone.

“That make you sick?” The Witcher laughed when Eskel nodded. “Good,” he said. “Need more people to get sick by stories like that. Name’s Aubrey, by the way.”

“Eskel.” Aubrey smelled like pure alpha, but it was different. It was calming instead of terrifying, because Aubrey didn’t seem like the type who would find out a secret and take advantage of it.

“You like stories, Eskel? I’ve got a lot of them. Been out there for too long, at this point. Not many boys anymore want to hear them, though. It’s all questions about monster killing, which, is only about half the job.”

Eskel gave a light grin. “Does that story happen often?”

Aubrey nodded. Nobles were just like that. Doing anything they could to get more power and more claim was a part of the title, and oft the only way to do so was to use their children. It was part of the reason why Witchers didn’t _have_ children. Kept their loyalty where it belonged, sure, but it also prevented them from fucking up the future. Witchers were fucked right from the start. The moment they began the training, the mutagens began. Seeing those passed on might have been horrifying. Not knowing the consequences was better than seeing them be awful.

Then there were the slavers, of course, who would take just about anyone. Omegas were always a hot commodity. They were just rare enough that they sold for a high price, but just common enough that it didn’t take years and years to acquire them.

“What about—” Eskel didn’t know how to ask this question, but he could blame it on what little information they were given on the subject. “Female alphas exist,” Eskel prefaced; that made the question just blatant curiosity and not terror for his own future. “Do male omegas?”

“Oh, sure.” Aubrey shrugged. “Rare, though. Any configuration you can think of exists, but I’m pretty sure that happens the least. Takes the right buyer for them, too, but when they go—they go for a _lot_ of coin. Even an infertile one goes for more than just a lady omega.”

Eskel gulped down a mouthful of ale. Did that mean the Trial of the Dreams wouldn’t help him at all?

“If you’re asking because you already think you got a preference for that, though.” Aubrey just laughed. “Good luck. Been as far north and as far south as I can go. Can’t find a single one in a brothel.”

Which didn’t exactly _help_ , but it alluded to a sort of slave trade all its own. The easiest way to make an omega was from another omega. People, as awful as it was, could be _born_ into the slave trade. It could have been just that simple, but regardless, Eskel’s only choice would just be to get stronger. He would survive the trials and go through the same mutations the rest of the boys did. He would train like an alpha, look like an alpha; nobody would _want_ him, if he did that. Even if they did. Even if by some chance he came across someone who didn’t want the little, curvy omega in their bed, he’d be too strong to take.

He’d be fine.

Aubrey had other stories to share, too, and they were much less grim. He talked about hunting, the vistas he saw, and the people he met. He talked about things as simple as running out of herbs and having to spend an entire day just shifting through a damn meadow to find the things he needed. Potions were not always the easiest thing in the world. If a third of the job was monster hunting, then the other third was brewing and inventorying potions. The other third was just trying not to get killed by angry mobs.

He’d been chased out of a town, once, so small that it didn’t show up on a map. They’d come prepared with everything they needed—torches, pitchforks. It was really quite sad that old stories of mobs were based that closely on reality. A lot of people didn’t like Witchers. Aubrey, of course, didn’t need their approval, just their coin. If they were willing to suffer through a leshen problem, then let them. It wasn’t any skin off his back, just no coin. He could get coin anywhere.

“You should go off and play with your friends,” Aubrey said, then. Right off the tail end of a story. “Go eat and enjoy yourself. Best not to spend the night listening to an old Witcher.”

“I enjoyed the stories, though,” Eskel said. He was a bit ready to go, though. He could see across the room where Geralt was talking to other Witchers, and he didn’t like the look of it. He wanted to be talking to Geralt, and if Aubrey was going to let him go, then he was going to go straight back to Geralt.

“I got plenty, and I’ll be around all winter. We’re here to help all you tykes get ready and train, anyway. You’ll see me around.”

Eskel liked the sound of that. He liked Aubrey, and he liked Aubrey’s stories. Aubrey took his tankard for him, still convinced it was the ale that had made him sick, then shooed him off to go play with his friends. It would be a sore life for a Witcher who didn’t have any friends. They traveled alone, for the most part, but the best moments on the road where moments running into brothers in arms, traveling in the same direction until the time came to part.

Geralt saw Eskel approaching before Eskel had made it entirely across the room, and quickly made excuse to pull himself away. He, too, was talking to a group of _real_ Witchers. It was all about the formal stuff, like training and the trials. Geralt was serious about all of it. He wanted to know what he could about the trials, the signs, and the brewing so that he could master it all, pass it all with flying colors. With any luck, he’d step outside of Kaer Morhen in the spring he turned twenty.

Witchers didn’t need luck, they needed skill. These Witchers had no doubt that Geralt would join them on the path soon enough and sent him off with congratulations and offers for a _real_ challenge. Reven wasn’t posing much of one, anymore. A chance to spar with real Witchers was one Geralt wouldn’t pass up, but that would be for later. For now, Geralt left them and crossed the room to meet Eskel.

“Let’s get dessert,” Geralt said, taking Eskel by the arm so he didn’t have to hear a refusal. “Made spiced cake, and it sounds great. We should have some.”

“Geralt—”

“We’re getting cake,” he said, firmly, and Eskel agreed.

Geralt was so beyond hearing a _no_ that, upon getting them each a rather hefty slice of this spiced cake, he skipped handing the plate over to Eskel and instead just scooped off a piece of his slice. He shoved it right into Eskel’s mouth and really just ignored the way Eskel seemed to flush.

“That’s good,” Eskel said, mouth still full of cake. Geralt handed him the plate, then.

“We should practice together,” Geralt said, pointing off to a quiet corner of the room to sit in. “You could use your signs on me, if you wanted. Best way to get better is to use them.”

“I do like the signs,” Eskel agreed. They made their way to the corner and then hunkered down on the floor, together. “Igni is fun.”

“You can’t just light everything on fire.”

“Light _you_ on fire.” Eskel chuckled to himself. “Axii? Could the great Geralt withstand my meager mind control?”

Geralt shrugged. “Won’t know until we try.”

Eskel hummed and leaned into the wall, definitely closer to Geralt than he needed to be. Their shoulders brushed whenever one of them shifted, but neither of them moved away from it. Geralt had never asked, specifically, to spar together, before. They’d done it a few times, but it was mostly out of convenience. They’d never been paired up, before. Varin had decided that they were out of each other’s leagues because Eskel was still a bit scrawny in the legs.

Sparring would be important, though. Training shifted around from time to time. In the colder months, while knowing how to fight in the cold was important, they still focused more on alchemy. Potions were every bit as important as swordplay, and it was something the mages could teach them inside of stone walls during the mornings and evenings. They could train in the afternoon with their swords and their knives when the sun was up, and it wasn’t quite so miserable.

“Getting a bit cold, don’t you think?” Eskel muttered. His cake was finished, and Geralt was still working away at his.

“Get closer, then.”

Eskel did not hesitate to take Geralt up on that offer. He shifted close enough that they were touching purposefully, not on accident. Then, he chanced it. Shifted down enough that he could rest his head against Geralt’s shoulder—because he was tired, now, too. It had been a long day, and the feast was only just beginning.

Geralt allowed that too, and his face even flushed. He caught Gweld’s eye from across the room, and Gweld just gave him this _look_ like he knew more than he needed to. Thankfully, the light was low. Geralt’s embarrassing blush could be kept entirely to himself, and he could eat his cake in relative peace. There was only so much peace to be found with Eskel leaning against him, their thighs touched together. It was plain torture, really, but there was no other way Geralt would want to spend the evening.

It was a night of merriment, laughter, and drinking. Winter had set in, and the pass would be snowed over, by now. They were all stuck up here, so they might as well make the most of it before things returned to normal. Training, training, training. It was grueling. It was awful. But it had to be done.

“I was talking to one of the Witchers,” Eskel muttered. His voice sounded heavy with sleep. “He said one of the things he looked forward to was the meeting of other Witchers on the road.”

Geralt just grunted in response. He was listening but had nothing to say.

“If it’s that nice, why don’t they travel together?”

Geralt glanced down at him. “Maybe that’s dangerous? People don’t like Witchers. More than one in a place could draw unnecessary attention.”

Eskel laughed quietly. “You’re so practical. Be less practical for a minute.” Eskel pushed off of Geralt’s shoulder so they could look at each other.

“What do you mean?”

“This will be _us_ soon, right? Neither one of us has any plan of dying. Nothing’s killed us yet.”

“Right. Hopefully, nothing will.”

Eskel smiled. “So, when we do go out there, do you think… I mean, what if we traveled together? The two of us?”

Geralt’s eyes widened.

“Wouldn’t that be nice? If you don’t think practically about it. The mobs and the monsters don’t matter. Wouldn’t it be nice if we went on the Path together?” Eskel wrung his hands together in front of him. This question felt intimate. He shouldn’t have even asked, but he was tired and had half a pint of ale in his system. He had no tolerance for it, not when he was this young and never drank. The look on Geralt’s face was frightening him, too. He looked shocked, and shock didn’t always just mean surprised. It could very well mean _disgusted_.

“That sounds—” Geralt gulped, “—great.”

It was Eskel’s turn to be shocked. “Great? Really? The two of us—on the Path? You—?”

Geralt nodded. He had to look away, because Eskel’s eyes were _shining._ It was too much to look at. “We’d be safer, I think,” he said. “We could split rewards, camp together. It’d be—” the word felt strange, like it didn’t mean quite enough, “—nice.” A dream.

Eskel smiled, and that smile was worth everything. Geralt would promise to travel the _world_ with him if it kept that smile on his face. Eskel had nice, full features. Full lips, round jaw, and a wider nose. It suited him. All of it did. The smile did, too.

Geralt didn’t know how much longer he would be able to handle this. Winter seemed like nothing more than an excuse for closer and closer quarters. Sure, they could train with the other Witchers now; they were focusing on alchemy, learning and learning as much as they were training and training, but there were so many _people_. They were all closer together than ever, and it made everything worse. Eskel was everywhere, but always right there. Never more than a few feet from Geralt.

They were friends, it made sense, and friend-given support was always necessary to get through the coming month. The diet was difficult enough to maintain, but to do it alone would feel near unbearable. Especially when it proved too much for one boy, and their group of twelve dwindled down to eleven. Four alphas, one omega, and six unconfirmed. It was so easy to die, here. So easy to just lose everything. Having Eskel so close, so much, was just a reminder of how easy it would be to lose him.

Nether one of them had any designs of death, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come. The Trial of the Grasses would happen in the following year. This spring, they would turn fourteen. Next spring, they would be fifteen, and the Grasses would be right behind. The Grasses could kill the best of them.

That thought was what brought Geralt here, sitting on the edge of one Kaer Morhen’s walls with Gweld leaning next to him. His feet were solid on the ground, but Geralt’s were dangling of the edge where even the great pile of snow beneath wouldn’t be enough to save him if he fell. It was cold, up here, but it was the only place they could run off to without being spotted. They’d both get a licking for this, but Geralt had a problem, and Gweld hoped to have a solution.

“So, problem,” Gweld said. “What problem could you possibly have?”

“Feelings?” Geralt said, unsure of himself. Gweld snorted. “It’s not funny.”

“No, not. Just not what I thought you’d have a problem with.” Gweld pushed himself off the wall to turn around and fold his arms on top of it. “Feelings, hm? About what? Terrified of death, all of the sudden? I think if the trials kill you, none of us have a chance.”

“No. I’m pretty confident,” Geralt admitted. “I wish they would come sooner, actually. I want to get it over with and just _go_.”

“So, what’s the problem? If you stop avoiding it, gonna push you off the wall.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “It’s Eskel.”

“Eskel. What, you think _he_ _’s_ gonna die? Doubt it. Too good at things to die.”

Geralt shook his head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just that he _could_ , you know? Eventually. And I wouldn’t want him to.”

“Wouldn’t either. Good guy, good friend. I’d be a bit sore if he up and died, you know?”

“I don’t think _you_ know,” Geralt grumbled. “It’s—worse than that, the feeling. For me, I mean. I—”

“You like him,” Gweld concluded. When Geralt looked down at him, gawking, Gweld laughed. “You’re not fucking subtle about it. The fact that _he_ doesn’t know yet is beyond me. Gardis and I have been taking bets on when you two are gonna get caught kissing in the armory. I think even _Reven_ knows, man. He says one thing about biting Eskel, and you nearly kill him. Probably just a joke, Geralt, but the way you responded? You’re obvious.”

Geralt frowned. “I didn’t realize this was such a fascinating topic.”

“We keep it on the down-low. Most of the boys don’t know. Sure, they’ve got their own drama to deal with.”

“If I’m that obvious but he doesn’t know, then I must not be obvious enough.”

“Or he’s just too stupid for you.”

“Eskel is not stupid,” Geralt barked. Gweld put his hands up.

“I don’t know, Geralt. Have you tried getting him some flowers? Herbs for his potions? He seems to have a knack for that. Might appreciate the gesture.”

“I haven’t. It didn’t cross my mind.”

Gweld shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t work, anyway. Gonna have to kiss him straight on the mouth.”

Geralt gawked, again, and Gweld burst out into laughter. The look on Geralt’s face was ridiculous. It was exactly the kind of stupid look that Gweld would have expected him to have for such an audacious suggestion, but really, it would be the only way Geralt could get his point across.

“Start with the flowers,” Gweld suggested. “You’ll do fine. Bet he likes you too, you’re both just too stupid to figure it out.”

“Eskel’s not stupid,” Geralt repeated, a bit angrier, this time.

“Ah.” Gweld pushed himself off the wall. “But you don’t refute that you are.”

Geralt couldn’t deny that one, because he was a bit stupid. This wasn’t something they taught in Witcher school; it was something they actively preached against. Geralt didn’t know how to deal with it any better than Gweld did, Gweld just had less of a problem prancing around and talking. He was friends with everyone. He knew everything. He may not have been the strongest or the fastest, but he knew how to talk to people and how to get them to trust him. That was almost as powerful a weapon as a sword.

“Flowers, then,” Geralt said.

“Harder to find in the snow. May not even be any. Offer to bring him his meals, and shit. Or, you could just walk up to him and say _hey, Eskel, I want to kiss you in the moonlight_ —” Geralt smacked Gweld right on the head and shut him up quickly.

Geralt wasn’t quite ready for that. He didn’t know if he could do something so forward, especially without knowing if Eskel felt the same way. One sentence could ruin their friendship, and Geralt _needed_ their friendship just as much as he needed whatever might come after. But he wasn’t willing to risk one for the other. He could deal with just the friendship as long the friendship existed. The only way he would ever move forward was knowing that it was even possible. So, he’d start small.

He did what Gweld suggested. He brought Eskel things. He brought him his meals. He brought him ingredients for potions from the stores. It didn’t really mean anything, but Eskel was grateful. Appreciative. Still, nothing really changed. They were friends, and if that’s all they would ever be, then Geralt would be grateful for it. He enjoyed Eskel’s company. He might enjoy kissing him, too. The difference with that is that he’d never experienced it, so he didn’t know what he was missing. He would know what he was missing if he ruined their friendship.

As spring approached, the boys were expected to help leaving Witchers prepare for their journey. There was a week of preparation, scattered in between mandatory training. Days were long and grueling, but no different than normal days. It gave the boys a chance to practice their skills without instruction breathing down their necks, and most of them delivered. Those who didn’t simply had to restart from the beginning as many times as they needed to.

Eskel only escaped one of those days, having woken up with that strange, weak feeling that left his legs trembling and everything _hot_. He knew what it meant, and he’d rushed to see Vesemir before the call came to even wake up. Vesemir gave him another potion, but Eskel couldn’t hide all day in his room. Too many Witchers, still. He had to go back to the bastion, but he would have permission to crawl right back into bed and ride this out until it ended. And it would end—Vesemir always assured him that it would end.

While Eskel returned to the bastion, Vesemir went to see Ludyn. They would need more potions. Enough potions to last four years, until Eskel would pass through the Trial of the Dreams. The longer they kept this up, the more dangerous it would be. Someone was going to find out, and while Ludyn was sure it would be fine if Barmin were to find out, Rennes finding out was a different story altogether. Rennes was the effective leader of the wolves, of Kaer Morhen. Barmin and Vesemir had power, but Rennes had the final decision.

Rennes wouldn’t be happy to hear about this. He would be even less happy to hear that it was Vesemir trying to do it. Ludyn still didn’t know that Vesemir was hiding an omega; all he knew was that _someone_ _’s_ presentation was being delayed. Even if that were hiding an alpha, it wouldn’t be good for the school. Worse for Vesemir, potentially, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

Once he returned to the bastion, Eskel just crawled straight into bed. A fever still ran its course, even if the heat never actually came. It wanted to come, and that was enough to leave Eskel absolutely boneless and miserable. The only thing that made it bearable was being able to pull Geralt’s shirt from out of his pillow and curl right up with it. It still smelled like Geralt, and it soothed him near instantly.

In the following day, Eskel was back up on his feet and glad for it. It was the day all of the Witchers would leave, back on the Path. Eskel had just enough time to rush out to the entrance of Kaer Morhen to say _goodbye_. They always left early, but Aubrey had stayed behind just long enough to give Eskel that just enough time to rush.

“I’ll be back next winter,” Aubrey promised, ruffing through Eskel’s hair. “I’ll bring you something from a monster, too. Plenty of stories.”

Eskel smiled. He and Aubrey had talked nearly every day since he arrived. Eskel looked up to him, saw a mentor as much as he did a friend. His leaving was a bit bittersweet, but at the promise of a present, Eskel could just hold himself together.

“I can’t wait,” Eskel said. “Stay safe.”

“As safe as I can. You just focus on you. You get strong enough, you can come out there and join me.”

After that, Aubrey had to leave, and Eskel had to get back to training. Always more training, training, training. But it was spring. The air was cool, breathable. It felt nice to be outside, slashing through the wind. Days were long and grueling as they often were, but it wasn’t quite as miserable as it could be in the winter and the summer. They had one more of each season before it would be time to face the Trial of the Grasses; training now was more paramount than it’d ever been before.

They ran drills with Varin daily. They sparred daily. Vesemir even joined them, now that there were no Witchers to give attention to. It was one particularly cool day that the stakes were upped. They weren’t just training. They were about to run what the Witchers called _the Killer_. It was a trail around Kaer Morhen laden with obstacles used to train speed and practice breathing techniques. It was a privilege as much as it was dangerous; usually, Witchers used it.

They weren’t Witchers, not yet, but they were close enough to being such that it was time to begin. As if things couldn’t possibly get more difficult, they were getting more difficult. They would run the Killer alone, but staggered. The boys were all fourteen, now. Four alphas, one omega, and six undecided. If they could handle the Killer, they could handle anything.

Geralt went first. The moment the sun peaked, he was set off. Fifteen minutes behind him, Reven was sent. Another fifteen minutes, Eskel. Gweld went next, after fifteen minutes, and he was positively terrified as he stepped up to begin. There was no jogging, no walking. It was a straight dash, controlled breathing and quick movement. It was nothing that he was particularly good at, but if he couldn’t do this, then he wouldn’t survive what was coming for him.

He took off at Varin’s order and focused. In fifteen minutes, he knew that someone else would be coming. If he tripped and fell, as long as he didn’t _die_ , he’d make it. So, maybe he took it a little slower than he should. They weren’t being timed.

The problem was this wasn’t meant to be taken slow. Gweld didn’t have the momentum that he needed to throw himself over this obstacle wall. He jumped it, because he thought he could, but his leg caught on it the edge of it and sent him tumbling right over. He scrambled, stumbled, and fell right off the edge of the trail. Below him was a drop, straight down the jagged side of the mountains Kaer Morhen was nestled into. All he could do was frantically grab into the rock, straining his fingers and breaking his nails as he did it.

Gweld’s breath caught in his throat, but he gasped. He tried to breathe, tried to pull himself up, but it was like something had caught straight into his ears. They were ringing. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t find the strength to pull himself up. He could barely do push-ups—how was he supposed to do _this_?

How long had it been? He had taken it slow enough to make up for the fact that he was alone? Or had he run it at exactly the speed they intended, and he had fifteen minutes ahead of him before he even had the chance of help? Could he hold onto this for fifteen minutes? The rock would crumble under his weight before that. He would die. They’d never find his body. The snow wasn’t entirely melted, but what was beneath it would rip his body apart limb from limb.

He tried, then, the panic rising. He scrambled his feet into the side of the rock, pushing himself up the best that he could. Pulling. Struggling. But he couldn’t get it. He couldn’t get it, until all of the sudden his sight was blocked out by a shadow.

“Fuck— _fuck_!” Gardis shouted, dropping down to his knees. He all but threw himself over the edge of the rock to grab Gweld by the arm. “What the fuck did you get yourself into it?!”

“I—” Gweld’s voice caught, but it didn’t matter. Between the two of them, they struggled, pulled, and scrambled until Gweld was lying back on the trail, breathing hard.

“You almost _died_ ,” Gardis accused, as if Gweld hadn’t figured that out.

“I suck at this,” Gweld groaned. “Fuck. Can we just— Can we go? And tell no one?”

Gardis pulled himself up to his feet, then pulled Gweld up next. Their arms stayed clasped as Gardis slapped a hand right into Gweld’s shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze, a shake.

“Tell no one,” he agreed. “We’ll run the rest of the way, together.”

Gweld nodded, hurriedly. “Yeah— Yeah. That’s. Great.”

They finished it together, though Gardis stalled at the end so they wouldn’t look like they’d run it together. It would just look like Gweld had ran it slow, and he’d run it fast, which wasn’t that far from the truth. Save for the fact that Gweld had nearly died.

At the end of the Killer, the boys who had finished it were waiting. They would all finish before they went back to training, so those who finished first got to rest, got to wait. It was the perfect time for something perfect, and Gweld was happy to see that Geralt was listening to him. For once. Maybe he hadn’t walked right up and kissed Eskel on the mouth, but they were sitting right up against each other.

“I—got you these,” Geralt said, handing over a handful of different flowers. He’d gotten them the day before, picked out from the meadow. They were supposed to have gone to the stores, because they were flowers used in potions. But they went to Eskel.

“Flowers?”

“For—potions, you know,” Geralt muttered. Gweld shook his head. Ridiculous. Couldn’t trust Geralt to do a thing.

“Thank you,” Eskel said, smiling. Maybe Geralt wasn’t so useless after all. “I’ll put them to good use.”

Gweld found himself a comfortable place to sit down and relax. Gardis sat next to him, and things were peaceful for the moment. More boys finished the Killer; one by one they joined until all eleven of them were sitting down. Then, it was right back to training.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: character death, blood/gore, depressed behavior, sexually explicit contact between minors (begins at "Eskel chose one of the smaller rooms"), mating bites
> 
> Trial of the Grasses takes place in this chapter| male omegas have vaginas in this fic as a reminder
> 
> do enjoy! comments are appreciated <3

Summer started hot, painfully hot. It was freezing during the night with how high in the mountains they were, but the days were long and arduous. Skin burned, blistered, and sweltered. None of it stopped the training. They trained through the heat, the freeze, and the rains.

It was one particularly hot day when they were all out in the yard. It was supposed to be another day of archery training. Eskel hadn’t felt particularly well, but it wasn’t the same feeling that would send him running to Vesemir. He just thought it was the temperature; it made everything a bit sweaty and uncomfortable. He got dressed with the rest of the boys, but just made sure he applied the oil and wore a higher-collared shirt. Then, the yard. It’s where they’d all met.

Archery had never gotten started. Varin explained the drill to them, and the entire time, Eskel couldn’t help but feeling like someone was staring at him. Glaring, even. He tried to ignore it, but it was difficult when the hair at the back of his neck began to stand. After that, he didn’t have time to finally look.

Reven lunged for Eskel. It looked just like the first presentation had—a sudden alpha boy gone mad. Only, this time, Eskel could move fast enough to get away from it. The boys all scattered, Reven planting himself right in the mud. But he recoiled quickly, moving through the grass with untold reflexed and lunging for Eskel again. Eskel. Always Eskel, and he knew _why_. And he hated it. Tried to scramble away before Reven could get to him.

Eskel managed to get himself to his feet, then Geralt was there. Varin was running, shouting. All of it was in another blur. A rush of panic until Varin got his hands on Reven and dragged him back. He threw a shout over his shoulder that the boys could just wait for him to return. Sick of the violent presentations. He’d be back as soon as he could throw Reven in a room with a lock and leave him to sort himself out.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Eskel said, before Geralt could even get a word out. “I need to go talk to Vesemir.”

Geralt frowned, but he couldn’t say _anything_ before Eskel was shaking out of his hold. Eskel left as quickly as he could, and Geralt couldn’t stop him. Nobody would, because nobody blamed him. Without context, which Eskel had sorely not given, it just looked like he needed a minute to get away. That was the second presenting boy who’d attacked him, and this time, it was Reven. It felt a bit more _personal_ when it was Reven.

Reven couldn’t matter less, in the moment. Geralt was left standing there, staring after Eskel, who was storming away. Running away, really. And it was beginning to feel strange. Eskel disappeared not often, but often enough that Geralt could see a pattern. This was also the second presentation that had come in an attack. If Reven had been first, Geralt could have just blamed that on Reven. He was naturally aggressive, and naturally an asshole. They all knew he would be an alpha, and they all knew he’d be a violent one.

But the first boy to present had been that boy no one thought about. He’d been so ashamed of attacking Eskel; that clearly hadn’t been him. It’d been something baser, more instinctual. But what instinct could there possibly exist that would set off a presentation, especially one so violent? It had to be connected to Eskel’s disappearing. Geralt thought back on it. Eskel disappeared once a season, essentially. Vesemir was always involved. But what did that _mean_?

Geralt didn’t know enough to place anything more than it was strange.

“Geralt, hey.” Gweld walked up beside him, jostling him by the shoulder. “You good? Is Eskel good? He just ran off there.”

“He’s fine,” Geralt said. “He said he was going to see Vesemir.”

“Varin is going to skin him alive.”

Somehow, though, Geralt didn’t think Eskel would return for training. It was just a couple of weeks into summer; give or take a few days, a week or so, and everything lined up. It wasn’t always the same day or the same week, but Eskel’s disappearances all added up to just a few weeks after the start of the season. Geralt might have to look into it. He might even just ask Eskel—but how was that brought into conversation? It could be another fast track to ending their friendship.

He wouldn’t ask. He’d figure it out.

The Witchers all returned to Kaer Morhen, once again, in winter. Eskel was more excited than the rest of the boys. Happy to see Aubrey again. He’d suffer his punishment for leaving training, but he had to be there to see Aubrey come back. He wanted to hear what stories Aubrey had brought him, what _gift_ he’d brought. He escaped from training each day they heard tell of a Witcher returning, and each day he was punished. He was punished when he didn’t see Aubrey and punished again for running from training.

It was days before the pass would be snowed in, and all the Witchers were to be back in Kaer Morhen. Eskel was all but limping from the amount of extra work he’d been put through, but he ran away again. Today was the day he would see Aubrey again, and he knew it. When the gates opened, that’s who he expected. He expected to see Aubrey march through, tired and hungry. In need of a bath. But Aubrey would see him waiting there and smile, because even after a year, Eskel still regarded him as a friend and a mentor.

It was Jorgen who came through the gates, carrying something rather hefty in his arms. He was one of their beta Witchers. Quite good at his craft, but never regarded in exactly the same way. Eskel’s heart fell, but there were still a few days for Aubrey to return. That was what he thought, until Jorgen approached him and stretched out his arm, offering Eskel the hefty thing draped over it.

“You’re Eskel, aren’t you?” Jorgen asked.

When Eskel nodded, Jorgen gestured to the mass over his arms.

“Aubrey talked a lot about you. Wanted you to have this. Sorry he couldn’t make it home.”

Eskel’s breath seized in his chest, but he took the massive thing. Jorgen said it was a cloak crafted from forktail hide. It would keep him warm in the coldest of air, and it would protect him from the sun when it got hot. Wrapped up inside of it was Aubrey’s medallion.

“Died in a hunt. Wanted you to have it,” Jorgen said. “Died before I could do anything.”

Eskel nodded. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he would not dare let them fall. He just took the cloak, the medallion, and held them close to his chest. As Jorgen passed around him, he left a reassuring pat to his shoulder. But that was it. Just like that, Aubrey was dead. Forgotten.

Eskel didn’t want to attend the feast in the following days. He cooked for it, because he had to, but on the evening of the feast he stole away. He didn’t eat any food, either. He just draped his new cloak over his shoulders and found a quiet corner of the castle to stick himself. The cloak was warm, and Eskel almost wished it weren’t. He almost wished it were an awful present so he could throw it to the ground and hate it, hate Aubrey for not coming back to tell him stories and share techniques with him.

Aubrey _promised_. He should have come back. Eskel would be facing the Grasses in the coming spring, and he _needed_ Aubrey. And Aubrey hadn’t shown up. Aubrey had the audacity to die out there in a hunt and leave him all on his own—but he wasn’t. Eskel was hidden there for no more than thirty minutes before he heard the scuffing of boots. He was ready to shout for whoever it was to just go away, leave him to his misery, but it was Geralt.

Geralt stood there, holding a plate of food. He looked rather stupid, really. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, and he was holding enough food on that plate for them both to eat. Just standing there. Looking at Eskel. It took a long moment for Eskel to shift closer into the wall so Geralt had enough room to sit. He was getting bigger with every passing month. Alpha looked good on him, but it smelled better. It was cold, and Eskel was on the verge of tears, so when he leaned into Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt didn’t ask questions.

Geralt smelled of pine and clove. It was the most comforting thing Eskel had ever smelled; it relaxed him to the point that the inhibitions were gone. Before Eskel could even swallow something from the plate, he was crying.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Geralt said, “but you can. I’ll listen.”

Eskel spilled everything. Aubrey had been his _friend_ , and it wasn’t fair that Aubrey couldn’t come home. Aubrey taught him things, shared things with him. There’d been so much still left to talk about. He wanted Aubrey to be proud of him when he passed the Grasses. He wanted Aubrey to know what he was, one day, and still see him for the powerful Witcher he would become. And none of it was going to happen. All he had was this stupid cloak and that stupid medallion. It didn’t make up for anything.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arm around Eskel’s shoulder and held him a bit closer. It was warm. Comforting. He curled in closer, inhaling deeply. He even managed to eat a bit more, thanks to Geralt’s insistence. That insistence was silence, nothing more than an idle patting on his back.

“Do you want to go back in?” Geralt asked. They’d been sitting there in the snow for nearly fifteen minutes. He would say he was cold, but Eskel was keeping him warm.

“Not yet,” Eskel said. “Maybe not ever. I don’t want to take you from the party.”

“No such thing!” Gweld’s voice suddenly rang out. He stepped out into the snow, clearly freezing with Gardis in tow. They had more food and warm ale, which they plopped down in the snow right out in front of Geralt and Eskel. They sat in the snow, across their miniature feast. “We brought it to you,” Gweld said. “We’ll go, if you want, but—”

Eskel shook his head. He even smiled, shifting so he could scrub his cheeks of the tears. He couldn’t help but smile. He couldn’t help but even laugh. Gweld was ridiculous, and the fact that he’d dragged Gardis into this, too? Eskel had felt so alone just moments ago, but how could he be? He had friends, and they were here. They abandoned their own chance for a night of merriment and socializing to come out here and spend it with Eskel in the snow.

“Before you say anything,” Gardis cut in. “Fuck the fire. We’re out here until you’re ready to go back.”

Eskel nodded.

“I brought cake, don’t worry!” Gweld exclaimed. “We’ve got our own stories, too.”

And Gweld enthralled them with the story of how Gardis had saved his ass on the Killer. It wasn’t exactly the type of story that a real Witcher could tell. There were no monsters, though Gweld took careful time to describe Varin in the ugliest way he could, and there were no epic twists. It was just Gardis pulling him from certain doom, and that was enough.

Spring had come. They were fifteen. The Trial of the Grasses was the following day. It was in less than twelve hours, if Geralt believed his time-telling skills to be of any merit. When the morning came, they would be called from the room and taken to the mages’ laboratory. After that, the stories all varied. The only thing for certain was that not all eleven of them would make it out of the Grasses alive. Geralt thought about Gweld, about Gardis, and about Eskel. His thoughts lingered on Eskel for a long time.

Before he’d known it, he couldn’t sleep. Geralt’s mind was running laps, and no amount of breathing would calm him. He could die. His friends could die. _Eskel_ could die. That was frightening. The tales about the Grasses were horrifying, filled with vague memories of screams and boys dying in their own blood and bile. It was agony, a death by the Grasses. It was not a death that Geralt wanted to face any more than he wanted his friends to face. And he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He rolled in his bed, lying on his left so he could see the lump in the bed beside him. If Eskel was asleep, Geralt didn’t want to wake him, but his breathing was too quick. He could chance it.

“Eskel?” He whispered. “Are you awake?”

Immediately, Eskel rolled to face Geralt. His right arm was hooked under the pillow, and his left was hunched over his neck and gripped into the sheets. He looked terrified, and in return, he could see terror in Geralt. They were fifteen, and they could die. They could die in agony.

“I can’t sleep,” Geralt said.

“Me neither,” Eskel muttered back. “Thinking about tomorrow.”

“We’ll make it, won’t we?”

Eskel just shrugged, and there was silence.

Geralt thought right then of telling Eskel that he loved him. Because that’s what it was, love. The more he thought about Eskel’s strange routine, too, the more he thought it was even a love that was _possible_. It wasn’t a question he would ask, because he wasn’t ready for an answer. Wasn’t ready to see the consequences of the answer. But he thought about it for every second of that moment of silence between them. He thought about asking. Did Eskel like him, too? Did Eskel even love him?

“I’m terrified,” Eskel muttered, and that shut Geralt’s thoughts off.

If he said it now, Eskel would have every reason not to believe him. It would be said out of duress, so how could Eskel trust it? That was something better saved for if they survived. When they survived.

“We’ll make it,” Geralt said, and he believed it because he had to. “We’ll meet each other back here, pack up our stuff, and we’ll get to leave the bastion. We have to bunk together.”

Eskel might have smiled, but it was too dark to see. “Okay,” was all he said.

They would survive this. Any other thought was just too dark, too much to think about.

The boys walked in a single-file line, silent with dread, to the mages’ laboratory. There were tables, vials, tubes, and tools. It looked like a torture scene, but it was the set for their Trial. All eleven of them would undergo it at once. Everything done in perfect sync, in perfect routine, in a perfect dance. All of the boys were told to strip down to their smalls, and they did. Then, it was onto the tables. The tables were not so tall that they couldn’t climb up themselves.

Eskel laid down, and a moment later, it was Mariette who stepped up to him. She looked at him for a moment, lips drawn tightly as she considered something of ill-importance, and then she stroked her long fingers back through his hair.

“It’ll hurt,” she told him. “Be strong, alright? You’ll make it through this.”

Eskel nodded. He turned his head to see Geralt beside him, but too far away for it to matter. Vesemir was talking to Geralt. All of the instructors would be here to offer what assistance they could. But mostly it was to help keep an eye out for the boys who died. It was terrifying. Vesemir was like a father to Geralt and knowing that this could kill him couldn’t have been easy. But it always happened. Happened every year when the next class of boys came of age.

They were restrained. Mariette tried to be gentle, but there was no way she could be. The binding had to be pulled tight enough to keep them still, and it was. Eskel was left immobile by the time he felt the first cut. It hurt. The pain ran right through him, but he gritted down his teeth and bore it. He felt the tubes Mariette slid into him, then shut his eyes. Once that was done, then came the gag. It was a long strip of fabric that was secured right behind his teeth. It wouldn’t stop the screams, but it would keep him from biting off his tongue.

The hookweed was to dull the pain, but that wasn’t accurate. It was to keep the pain alone from being the killer when the Trial began. Because it would be. It could be, if the boy wasn’t strong enough. These potions would rip them apart from the inside out and hopefully, when it was all said and done, they’d come out the other side all put back together. Nobody knew how long it would take. It could take days. A week. Or all eleven of them could die right here and everything would end.

Eskel tried to breathe. Tried to prepare himself. But nothing would prepare him for this.

The pain hit all at once. He didn’t even hear the call for the first potion, but it hit. Hit hard. He felt it instantly, and without that gag in his mouth he might have just bit off his own tongue. But he screamed. Oh, he _screamed_ and arched and strangled like he could get away from this, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide. All he could do was _feel_ as knives ripped through his veins, his muscles, his skin. He was sweating. Gasping, panting. He was screaming, still, and he could hear his own screams as well as those of the boys.

His head shot to the side, and he saw Geralt. Geralt, screaming with blood dripping down his face from his nose, the corners of his eyes. Gods, they were going to die. Eskel’s back cracked, arched, and he knew they were going to _die_.

But they didn’t die. Hours had passed, and they hadn’t died. They were just idling now in horrible pain, panting and breathing like air would make it all go away. Eskel wondered if it was over. If that’s all it was. He didn’t know how long it had been, and his eyes were clouded over. He couldn’t _see_ anything. Could barely hear. Nothing but the screams, the shouts, and the nothings. The nothings were the part that frightened him, most.

The pain began again. Another potion opened, injected straight into the veins. Eskel did not so much just scream, this time, as he did cough and vomit into his own mouth. He swallowed some of it, the rest of it spewing to the side as he convulsed. Shouted. Shrieked as the pain wracked through him, went black in his veins and started to settle. He’d never make it out of this.

Around him, the other boys shouted. One was taken with a quick convulsion, a shout like the sound a banshee makes when under attack. Taken with pain. Bleeding from the mouth, the nose, the eyes. His skin was drenched and sweat, and no amount of anything could save him. All at once, he went still, and he was the first to die. Ten left.

When the third potion came, the hours and days and minutes and years had all blended together into one welt of pain, of screaming. Eskel was covered in sweat; it felt as if every single bone in his body had broken, reformed, and broken again. A bone-crushing fever broke through him. More pain. Sweating. He vomited more often than not, and surely pissed himself. There was nothing left in his stomach, so he heaved, and he arched, and he fought against the ties that bound him.

He could _hear_ things in the nothingness, and they were things that terrified him. A ringing in his ear to drown out the screams. Heaving. Shouting. Screaming. Everything had gone black and white, all at once. Everything on top of each other. Pain on top of pain on top of a release of mere seconds that might have been sleep. And then pain.

One boy died when the fever hit him, his body unable to withstand the heat. He baked alive in his own head, eyes rolled back and bloody drool down the side of his chin.

Eskel lost track of time, of space. He didn’t know who was around him, who was moved. Who was alive. Who was dead. Was Geralt still next time? Was he still bleeding from the nose, covered in a sheen of sweat? Was he _dead_ , left there to lay in a pile of his own vomit? There was no time to think, no thoughts to think with. Pain. There was only pain for days, for hours, for days.

Eventually, everything just went dark.

It took seven days, in total. Eskel awoke on the seventh day, taken with exhaustion and drowsiness. His own heart was thumping in his head, but it was slow. Steady. Strong. He was alive. He was alive, and the world around him was brighter than it had been before, but much quieter. The first thing he did was loll his head to the side.

And Geralt wasn’t there.

Eskel began to breath harder, immediately. Where was Geralt? Was he dead? Had he died? Had they dragged his limp body out of here and burned it? Would Eskel even get to say _goodbye_? No—no, he couldn’t be dead. Geralt couldn’t be _dead_. Eskel wouldn’t—couldn’t let that happen. That was his friend. He—he _loved_ Geralt. Geralt didn’t know that. Geralt wasn’t here to know it. Eskel had lost his chance to ever say it. Geralt was dead. He wasn’t _there,_ so he had to be dead. Had to be. Had to be dead—

Eskel gasped as there were hands on him. The light hurt, mutations too new and sensitive to work as well as they would in the coming days, but oh, it hurt. Everything hurt. His bones, his lungs, his face. It was Mariette, there. He saw her. He knew her. He was breathing too hard, like he was going to panic. And she was there. Helping. Soothing. She petted back through his hair until he caught his own breath and swallowed.

“You’re awake,” Mariette said. “You’re alright. We’ll get you down and into bed.”

“Where’s—”

She shushed him. “Save your breath. Save your strength. Think about you.”

Eskel sucked in a deep breath. He wouldn’t get answers. Not now. He wasn’t going to be awake much longer—he could feel it. The exhaustion was taking him, quickly.

Mariette called for someone as she undid Eskel’s bonds. He felt disgusting, but sleep would come before he could bathe. He didn’t care about any of it—sleep, bathing. He just wanted Geralt. He wanted to know where Geralt was. Had he survived? If he hadn’t, was his body even still around? Eskel wanted to see him. Eskel wanted to see Geralt so badly.

The next Eskel awoke, he was clean, dressed, and in his own bed. It wouldn’t be his bed for much longer, but it was for the moment. He laid there for no longer than a moment before he suddenly jolted up. The room was not empty. Gweld was asleep in his bed, but that did nothing to calm Eskel. Geralt wasn’t in his, and neither were his things stored at the foot in the chest. He was gone. Geralt was gone. Geralt was _dead_. Eskel yanked Geralt’s stolen shirt out of his pillow to hold it.

Everything be damned. If they found out what he was, then let them. He _needed_ this smell, pressed right up against his nose where he could inhale deep. Pine and clove. Geralt. It only did so much. Fear remained, where Eskel knew this couldn’t last forever. What if the last time he would ever see Geralt was there, strapped to that table with blood streaming down his face? Would that be what he remembered? Geralt, in pain, screaming. Eskel didn’t want to remember him, that way.

He wanted to remember the strong, confident Geralt that he knew. The one who sat with him in the snow after Aubrey’s death. The one that came to his aid. The one that laughed at his stories, helped him in training.

Eskel kept Geralt’s shirt close, and he just ran from the room. He didn’t even know what to search for, but his sense of smell was so strong. Stronger, still, because he was only days away from his heat trying to begin again. He’d need another potion—he _hated_ potions, all of the sudden—but for the moment, he could follow the smell. That had to mean something. Sure, Geralt lived here and trained here, but that didn’t mean his scent would be this potent, would it?

Eskel could only hope.

He tore through the bastion, and there was nothing. He looked through the courtyards, and nothing. The armory. The stable. The mess hall. Nothing. Eskel forced himself through the exhaustion and ran up the stairs, climbing higher and higher into the towers of Kaer Morhen. He searched rooms, walls, training areas and _nothing_. His choices were getting limited, now. Every second that passed pointed harder and harder to Geralt was dead.

Eskel checked the kitchens, and that same girl who’d had her eyes batting at Geralt at the winter feast offered him the root cellar. A very snotty scoff in her throat that another boy had wanted it to get away from the noise. What noise, she didn’t know—Eskel didn’t stay around to hear. He all but threw himself into the cellar, or he’d wanted to. He was careful to not fall straight down the ladder. He’d survived the Grasses—he wouldn’t let his own panic kill him.

It was dark, down here, but Eskel could see almost instantly. Everything outside had been so painfully bright, but in here, his eyes could adjust better. It didn’t take him long to find exactly what he was hoping for—Geralt, crouched down in the corner and very much _alive_.

“Geralt—” Eskel breathed, choked on the word. He could have cried. He dashed forward, his mere whisper enough to catch Geralt’s attention, and dropped right down to his knees.

“Eskel—”

“How dare you?” Eskel shouted. “I thought—I thought you were _dead_ , Geralt! You— You!”

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt whispered. He moved, Eskel moved, and they collided in the middle with arms tight around each other. Eskel buried his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“I woke up early,” Geralt continued. “Everyone was still—the screams, Eskel. You were screaming, and I—they took me out before anything could happen. Terrified I’d never see you again.”

“How do you think I feel? I woke up and you’re not there? I have to come _find_ you?”

“Too much,” Geralt muttered. “My ears hurt; my eyes hurt. Everything just sets me off; it’s too much. I needed quiet.”

“You _needed_ to be there for me,” Eskel hissed. He pulled back and grabbed Geralt’s face, hands around his jaw. “You weren’t there when I woke up. I thought you were _dead_.”

“I’m not dead. I’m—”

“An omega,” Eskel blurted. “Me. I’m an omega.”

Geralt just breathed. Hard. Eskel confirmed his suspicions right there; it all made sense. And that _smell_. That sweet smell. It was Eskel. It had always been Eskel.

“Can I—?”

“ _Please_ ,” Eskel breathed.

Geralt leaned forward, Eskel’s hands still on his face. His own hands hovered right over Eskel’s side, and he hesitated just inches from his lips. Contact. He grabbed Eskel’s side and kissed him. Finally, kissed him. Their first kiss, right there in the cellar. Neither of them knew what to do, but they worked it out. They shifted; Eskel came closer, Geralt kissed deeper, and they fell into a rhythm. It felt like instinct. It felt natural to be like this, lips slotted together and hands on each other. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

By the time Eskel pulled back, he was kneeling between Geralt’s spread thighs. Neither of them moved. Eskel had a lot of explaining to do, and he explained it all right there, with his hands on Geralt’s neck. He’d basically presented years ago. He’d been the first, and he’d been terrified of what hit him. Vesemir helped him stop it. Was still helping him stop it because Vesemir knew that the walls of Kaer Morhen was no place for an omega. If anyone knew, he wouldn’t be treated kindly.

Eskel still didn’t know what that meant, only that it terrified him. It terrified him, but Geralt didn’t know enough to share that fear. He wanted Geralt to know. He’d wanted Geralt to know from the moment he knew, but Vesemir had told him not to tell anyone. He couldn’t keep it to himself, anymore. They’d just survived the trial meant to kill them, weed out the weak and _change_ them. Eskel saw golden, slitted eyes on Geralt. Geralt saw the same on him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Geralt asked. “If Vesemir thinks—”

“Because I can’t, Geralt. I can’t. You don’t understand. I’ve been dreaming about you. The moment you presented, I knew what I wanted.”

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

“I thought you wouldn’t want it. You said you’d never bond with an omega, but I have to— I have to say it. I _like_ you, more than I should, and…” Eskel trailed off.

Geralt didn’t know how to form the words. He didn’t know what to say. He barely knew what to do, but he made it out of jerky and hesitant movements. His hands went from Eskel’s sides to his neck, where the tips of his fingers could feel along the nape.

“Yes,” Eskel whispered. “I want that. I want you to do it. I—”

“I will,” Geralt said, quickly. “I mean, I want to. I wouldn’t bond with an omega out there, outside of Kaer Morhen, because they would die, and I wouldn’t—how awful. But you? Eskel, we’re going to be Witchers. We’re going to walk the Path together, aren’t we? If you’ll have me. You could be _mine_.”

“I will be. Geralt, we could do this _now_.” He couldn’t wait three years to have Geralt. Vesemir said he could still bond after the Dreams, but he couldn’t wait that long. “I haven’t taken that potion this season. It’s going to start soon. I can feel it.”

“Isn’t that too soon? We should plan.”

Eskel shook his head. “How would we ever get time away to do it? As it is, we’ve got time to rest after the Grasses. This is the only time. Please, Geralt.”

Geralt sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought. “The Witcher’s wing will be empty. It’s spring. We could steal a room, lock the door.”

“I’ll pick one. You just have to find me.” Eskel said and kissed him again.

The Grasses were over. They’d survived. Out of eleven boys, only five were still standing. Two of them were sitting, wrapped up so tightly in each other that they forgot about the trials, the Witchers, if only for a moment. They were learning how to kiss, and at the time, that seemed just about as important as anything else. Eskel already knew exactly what room he wanted to steal, and it would only be a day or two before they were there. Learning more. Becoming more.

Eskel chose one of the smaller rooms. He made sure to have taken a bath, beforehand, and then barely had the strength to get here. The feeling was rising up, leaving him boneless and shaking. He thought he’d start the fire, but by the time he closed the door to the room, his whole body was on fire. He barely made it to the bed. This, he was familiar with, but somehow it was all the more intense. His new senses were making it all worse. He could _smell_ his own scent, sickly sweet and needy.

The sheets on the bed were soft. Real linen against his skin. Just the touch of them seemed to have him shivering, and this was the part of it that was all new. He’d always stopped it before it got here. The wetness. He only remembered it from the first time, but that was a lifetime ago. This was right now, in the present, and _new_.

Eskel stripped down out of his shirt, first. He wasn’t quite ready to remove his breeches. Too unsure of what he would find, even as he could feel the slick starting to gather. It felt. _Good_. And knowing that Geralt was going to join him just made it all better. He could think about that, as he settled down into the pillows. Geralt coming to him. He wondered how this would affect Geralt. The presentations he’d set off had been violent. Would Geralt be violent with him? Would Eskel care if he were?

Geralt could do anything, Eskel decided. But first, he needed to show up. Eskel laid there for what felt like hours, rocking his hips into the air and feeling the linen on his skin. Everything was so sensitive, and that feeling of slick was just growing. Eskel’s cock was hardening on its own, nothing but air and the rubbing of his smalls and breeches. He was hot. Ready for _something_ , but what was that something? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

In the next moment, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. He jerked towards it, afraid that he’d been caught, only to see Geralt hurrying inside. He closed the door, locked it, and sucked down a deep breath. He looked at Eskel, then, his pupils blown wide. He could smell _everything_ , and he wore his sudden arousal right on his face. He could smell the slick, the need, the _want_. Eskel’s first heat. He was right on the edge of it starting, and Geralt was going to be here for the whole thing.

He’d brought food and water, but it was left forgotten on the desk in turn for marching straight to the bed. Geralt stripped off his shirt, left his boots on the floor, and climbed right into bed. He hovered over Eskel, kneeling beside him, and just stared at him for a long, long moment.

“You smell so good,” Geralt rasped. Eskel smelled like orange blossom and leather all rolled into something perfectly sweet and _slick_. Just the smell of him, an omega in heat, had Geralt reacting. He started to sweat, and his cock twitched in his pants.

Eskel hummed. He couldn’t find the words. His mouth was dry, and his mind was fogged. But he reached for Geralt, wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck, and pulled him down. Geralt closed the rest of the distance and kissed him, breathing in the sweet smell of him. They were better at this. It’d been just a day since their first, but they kissed whenever they could find a spare minute. In the armory, against the walls of the castle. They kissed at night after everyone had gone to sleep. This was perfect.

When Geralt pulled back, he ran his fingers through Eskel’s hair and stopped right at the side of his face.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Geralt muttered. “I’ve never.”

Eskel shook his head, rubbing his knees together. “Me neither. I don’t care. Just touch me, Geralt, please. I feel like I’m on fire. It _hurts_.”

Geralt gulped. He could already feel himself slipping away. He didn’t know what it meant, but when he heard that desperate noise come from Eskel’s throat, he knew he had to do something. Everything in his body was pushing him to do anything. Touch. Kiss. Claim. _Take_. Eskel was right there in front of him, beneath him. Waiting for him. Begging for him. Eskel was hot, dripping. Presenting. Fertile. That was the last thing he should have been thinking about, but his instincts didn’t care.

All at once, he wanted everything Eskel could give him. His heart. His mind. His heat. Maybe even a _child_. Had Geralt the mind left he would have swallowed that thought right down. That couldn’t have even been possible, and Eskel may have not even wanted any. All he wanted was a bond, and Geralt was going to make damned sure that he gave him one.

Geralt dove right down, capturing Eskel in a hard, searing kiss. Eskel’s hands were on him. Over his scalp, down his chest. Eskel dragged through the hair growing there, coming down to rest his hands on Geralt’s sides as Geralt moved over top of him. They just kissed. Kissed hard, fast, Geralt tilting his hips to grind down into Eskel’s. He could feel Eskel’s cock against his own. Smaller, but achingly hard. Eskel smelled so _good_ , and that scent just jolted as they rutted together.

It was slow, and Eskel didn’t quite know what to do with this hands. Geralt didn’t know what to do with his, either, but when they pulled apart, he started on his own trousers. He could barely muster the focus to get them open, get them down. Eskel’s staring wasn’t helping. He was just looking. Watching as Geralt fumbled with his laces. Eskel didn’t so much as move; he just let himself lay there, inhaling Geralt’s perfectly wonderful scent. Once Geralt’s breeches were gone, he started on Eskel’s.

He didn’t stop with tugging Eskel’s breeches off. He pulled down Eskel’s smalls, too, then just knelt there. Staring. Eskel’s cock was so much smaller than his own, only half-hard against his hip. It paled in comparison to the rest of him. Eskel spread his thighs on instinct, under an alpha’s gaze. It felt so strange to have _Geralt_ staring so close, but he could see everything. Eskel’s cunt was swollen, red, and dripping. He smelled of pure _want_ , and Geralt reacted almost instantly.

“Please—” Eskel suddenly groaned. That scent hit hard, and Geralt let out some feral growl right from the back of his throat. “Geralt, I can’t. It _hurts_!”

They met together in a hard, searing kiss while Geralt spread Eskel’s thighs out around him. All Geralt could think about was having this. Eskel would be _his_. His cock was aching in his smalls, but he almost didn’t care. He let his body do what it wanted, and that had him pressing his fingers right between the lips of Eskel’s cunt. Spreading him open. Feeling right through that slick—he was so wet. Every pass of Geralt’s fingers pulled a trembling moan right out of his throat.

He sounded _perfect_. Geralt wanted this more than he’d realized. He pulled away from the kiss to hear all of it, every moan from Eskel’s lips. Geralt pressed his lips into Eskel’s throat, instead, mouthing over whatever skin he could get to. He did whatever it was that made Eskel make those _noises_. Perfect. Wonderful. And then Geralt brushed something that had Eskel crying out, jolting and jerking. His back arched, and he grabbed onto Geralt’s shoulders.

“Geralt, oh,” Eskel gasped. “That was—I’ve never even—” Eskel couldn’t get the words out. Everything was too much and not enough, all at once. His head was clouded over with pure need.

“Never touched yourself?” Geralt finished. Eskel’s face ran red, and he shook his head.

Geralt just swiped his fingers again, rubbing little circles around Eskel’s clit. It had him trembling. Shivering. His thighs fell open and went tight as his toes curled. His jaw dropped open; his nails dug into Geralt’s shoulders. The way that his back arched— _fuck_. Geralt groaned, leaning down drag his _teeth_ this time, over Eskel’s neck.

He couldn’t wait. Geralt pulled back all at once, wiping his fingers on the bed before he grabbed Eskel and turned him over. Eskel let it all happen. Let Geralt manhandle him up to his knees, arms wrapped around a pillow and his face pressed into it. There wasn’t even enough time to feel shame, not with the way Geralt was groaning just at the sight of him.

Geralt scrambled to get his own smalls down, nearly managing to topple himself over in his haste. But then his cock was in his hand, and it didn’t _matter_. He was achingly hard, the tip an angry red and leaking with precum. He knew the basics, and that’s all that mattered. They could figure it all out later. But at that moment, all Geralt could think about was having Eskel in front of him, _presenting_. Ready to be fucked, mated. Geralt shifted closer, pressing the head of his cock between the lips of Eskel’s cunt.

“Fuck,” Eskel gasped. “Geralt, I—” he wanted to beg for more. He wanted Geralt to wait. Wanted him to just fuck forward with abandon.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt gruffed. He leaned over Eskel, pressing his back into Eskel’s chest. Held an arm around him. “I’ll take care of you.”

It sounded like a promise. Whispered just right that Eskel could feel the rumble of Geralt’s chest against his skin. It relaxed him, instantly, and he whined. Then, Geralt was rocking his hips. He had a hand at the base of his cock, angling it just right to catch on the rim of Eskel’s hole. It took a few tries, a few rocks of Geralt’s hips to get the angle right, but then he was sinking right inside.

Eskel moaned into the pillow, crying out with each inch deeper. Geralt took it so slow, bucking his hips in shallow, burning little thrusts. He didn’t want to hurt Eskel. Wanted to make him feel good. Geralt pushed into him slowly, so slowly, Eskel could feel everything. Everything. Moaning into the pillow. It felt like ages before Geralt bottomed out, but his hips were suddenly pressed up right against Eskel’s. Geralt groaned, rolling his head back. His hips twitched, and just the slightest bit of movement had Eskel grunting so, so beautifully.

Geralt started to move his hips. He grabbed Eskel’s, kept him steady, and used the leverage to fuck into him. Eskel spasmed around him, walls clenching down as he gasped out. The _feeling_ that rushed up through his spine. He felt so good. So alive. Neither one of them were going to last long. This was so _new_. So fucking sensitive.

Eskel tore his nails through the sheets, clawing and clambering, just trying to ground himself. He was dripping in his own sweat, in his own slick. Each time Geralt bottomed back out inside of him he could hear all of those disgusting wet noises, and it just made him feel _more_. Geralt was so thick inside of him, filled him up so perfectly. Eskel didn’t know when he’d started begging, but he was. Loud, _needy._ It was embarrassing, almost, but Geralt’s hands were on him in an instant. Mutterings of _I_ _’ve got you; I’ve got you_.

Their hips slapped together as Geralt picked up the pace, suddenly too much, too _much_ to keep himself contained. Eskel was squeezing so perfectly around him, making all of those hot, breathy, and desperate noises. Geralt couldn’t control himself. They were chasing the end together; Eskel working his hips back against Geralt almost wildly. Geralt bent over him, grabbing Eskel around his chest because it felt like the right thing to do. And it must have been, because suddenly Eskel was moaning—Geralt’s fingers brushing against his nipples on accident, on purpose, all to keep him right where he wanted him.

The base of Geralt’s cock began to swell, and at that moment, he was just overtaken with something hot, something so good that it made him work faster. Each time that swelling caught right at the edge of Eskel’s cunt, Eskel cried out, surged forward. Geralt kept him still. Fucked into him for those last few hard thrusts until his knot was catching and instinct pushed him over the edge. He bent over Eskel, pressed flush against him, and took what was presented.

Geralt snapped down, digging his teeth right to the base of Eskel’s neck. He held Eskel’s head down, kept him still while the bite took, and Eskel just screamed. The pain coursed through him, masked over with _pleasure_ as Geralt ground into him, worked his knot in deeper. That turned those awful shrieks right back into moans, and Eskel went weak against the bed. Submitted. Seeing that was like lighting through Geralt’s spine, and his orgasm hit all at once.

He bit down harder, eyes closing tightly as he came, spending deep, _deep_ inside of Eskel. Eskel just moaned. Shifted his hips back and held into the bed as he felt it. Took all of what Geralt gave him. Craved more of it. His cries had turned to whimpers, to pleas—more. He wanted _more_. It wouldn’t be enough. His body was just getting hotter, and there was an ache somewhere that he couldn’t place. It hurt. It hurt badly, and all he wanted was for Geralt to grab him and _fuck_ him.

The mark took. It bled. It washed Eskel over with feelings that sent him right over the edge, sputtering and gushing around Geralt’s cock. He could feel the blood that dripped down his neck, but he didn’t care. Geralt’s tongue was there, hot and lapping at the new wound. It left Eskel shivering, trembling.

“Geralt,” he rasped. “Geralt, it _hurts_ —”

“It’ll heal—”

“Not the fucking mark,” he barked, but the words wouldn’t come further. He didn’t know how to describe this. Didn’t know how to _beg_ for it. All he knew was that he wanted, and he rolled his hips back into Geralt’s.

That was enough.

When Geralt’s knot subsided, he rolled Eskel onto his back and fucked right back inside. Eskel’s thighs fell open and he _moaned_ so prettily as Geralt breached him again and again. There was no stopping. Eskel’s want was insatiable, and the scent he gave off kept Geralt hard, with his own insatiable want to please. He needed to tear Eskel apart until he was so exhausted, so tired that all he could do would be to lay there and take it.

There were lulls in Eskel’s heat. Moments where he wanted something other than Geralt’s cock inside of him, though he wasn’t opposed to it. Those were the moments where Geralt took time to feed him, to wash him down with hot water and a rag. He made sure Eskel had water, too. Rubbed oils into his skin to keep an ache from settling.

They tried new things, too. They had _days_ with each other. On the second day, when Geralt was too exhausted to get himself up when Eskel begged, Eskel shoved him down into the pillows and sat on his cock, shame all but gone from the moment. He rode Geralt until he couldn’t, and then he still _tried_ until Geralt finally flipped them over and fucked Eskel right back into the mattress where he belonged. After, Geralt tried something of his own. He dropped down between Eskel’s thighs and lapped right through his swollen, red cunt until he was crying from how _much_ it was.

By the time Eskel’s heat was over, they’d lost count of how many times they’d come together. Eskel woke in some wee hour of the fourth day and was entirely back to himself. They were in desperate need of a bath, and the whole room stank of sex. Geralt was pressed against him, cock still somehow between his thighs and forehead against the healing mark at the back of his neck. Eskel couldn’t help but shiver, smile, when he remembered the mark. He reached around to feel it on his fingertips, and the lightning tingle that followed was nearly too much.

Geralt woke in the next minute, seemingly roused by the same feeling. He shifted, moving up so he could kiss the bite mark. He kissed Eskel’s neck, his jaw, then tilted Eskel’s head so he could kiss his lips, too. Eskel hummed pleasantly into the attention, curling into Geralt.

“Good morning,” Geralt muttered. “You smell fantastic.”

Eskel smiled. “So, do you.” He let his eyes close, face pressed right up into the junction of Geralt’s neck and chest. Geralt’s fingers were in his hair, soothing. Wonderful.

“You’re mine, now, Eskel,” Geralt said, kissing his head.

Eskel let out a breathy laugh. “No, I think you’re mine.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, just talking. They weren’t official Witchers, yet, but when they were, Geralt wanted to go everywhere together. He wanted to take _care_ of Eskel, because that’s what alphas were supposed to do. Take care of their omegas. They would take care of each other. Watch each other’s backs. Make a life out there on the Path that no other Witcher would ever get to have. And it sounded wonderful. It sounded like precisely the sort of thing Eskel wanted, and Geralt was just going to give it to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mentions of abortion
> 
> check out me tumble in the notes at the end if ur REALLY into this story and want more

At first, Vesemir thought it was a joke. Eskel had come to him, freshly bathed and wearing a high collared shirt, and told him what had happened. That he’d had his first heat. With an alpha. And bonded. Vesemir thought it was a joke, because it couldn’t be anything other than a joke. He’d told Eskel how dangerous it would be to let anything happen before the Trial of the Dreams. Eventually, the potions wouldn’t have been able to hold off the inevitable, but everything would have been _safer_ if it happened after the Dreams.

But it wasn’t a joke. Eskel was even offended at the idea that it could have been a joke. He stepped up to Vesemir and folded down the collar of his shirt to _prove_ it wasn’t a joke, and there it was. Vesemir wouldn’t be able to mistake it for anything else. There was an indented ring of teeth at the nape of his neck, still raw, red, and scabbed. It was fresh.

“Were you attacked?” Vesemir asked. “Who did this to you, boy?”

Eskel shook his head. “It wasn’t an _attack_. I chose this. It’s fine.” He folded the collar of his shirt back up and turned to face Vesemir. “I just need to know what to do now. I’ve had my first heat.”

Vesemir sighed and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have. I can get a hold of something that can stop your heat from coming, now, but if _anyone_ sees that mark, your secret is out.”

“I know that. I can hide it.”

“Would that I knew more about this.” Vesemir slumped down in the chair at his desk. “I’m not exactly the most well-versed in omegas, you understand. I just know that historically this isn’t the place they want to be.”

“You’re worried,” Eskel said, more an accusation than a question. “I’ll be fine. As long as I don’t have another heat, who’s going to know?”

Vesemir looked at him for a moment then shook his head. “The only thing that would pose a problem is if you had gotten pregnant,” Vesemir said. “I don’t _believe_ pregnancy is possible on a first heat.”

There was no account for the changes made because Eskel had delayed his for two years, at this point, but Vesemir didn’t say that. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to be the one giving Eskel information that would just hurt him. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. They didn’t exactly keep contraceptive potions on hand in the keep, because they had no need for them. He would already be risking things to tell Ludyn about this new potion. He’d be risking more in asking for one to terminate a pregnancy, and even then, it was entirely contingent on being able to get the ingredients.

“So, I should be fine, then, right?” Eskel didn’t sound so sure, anymore. He wrapped his arms around himself and stood there.

“You chose this, you said? I won’t pretend to know who it was with,” though, Vesemir had an idea of it; he wasn’t stupid, “but so long as you both can act normally around each other, then there should be no cause for alarm. Training doesn’t get any kinder from here on in.”

“I know. We won’t be fucking in the courtyard, if that’s what you think.”

Vesemir frowned, and Eskel muttered an apology.

“You don’t get to mouth off just because you’re bonded,” Vesemir snapped. “You still treat your superiors with respect. I am the only one who knows about this; you don’t get special treatment for, either. Letting you off of training was to keep you safe. Once I get a potion to stop your heats, that stops, too. You need to focus and keep yourself in line.”

Eskel nodded and bowed his head. “I understand.”

“Might as well stop causing trouble, too. If I find out, you and Geralt were out there harassing wildlife again—”

“I understand,” Eskel repeated. “Stay in line and keep my head down.”

“Might better to keep your head _back_ so nobody sees that mark. Training resumes again tomorrow, and you will be there for it. I should have something ready for you by then.”

Eskel nodded and was promptly dismissed. No longer would they sleep in the bastion, now that they’d passed the Grasses. They had a new area for that, bunks set up in a separate wing of Kaer Morhen. Eskel did not head there, and instead just backtracked to the empty Witcher wing of the keep, straight back to the room he’d left Geralt in. This was _their_ room now; they’d already decided that. Whenever they wanted to meet, they would do it here. It was far enough away that they wouldn’t be caught, but close enough that they could disappear during free time.

Geralt was still lounging in the bed, though he was freshly washed. The sheets were washed to the best of their ability, too, and drying near the fireplace until they could go back on the bed. Nobody needed to know what they’d done in here; it was a bit bittersweet thinking that they wouldn’t do it again. Eskel padded across the stone floor until he’d reached the bed, then crawled up without bothering to take off his boots. Geralt shifted almost on instinct, giving Eskel a place to lay right up against him.

“No more heat,” Eskel muttered. “Vesemir _yelled_ at me, but he said he’d get me something.”

Geralt grunted.

“I’m surprised he didn’t give me a licking right there. Looked like he wanted to.”

“Did you tell him?” Geralt asked. He shifted to rest his arm low around Eskel’s waist, and there, rubbed mindless shapes into a strip of skin.

“That it was you? No. As long as we don’t try to jump each other in the yard, I don’t think anyone will find out. I just need to keep using the scent blocking oils.”

Geralt grunted, again. He shifted closer, shifted down, and pressed his nose right into Eskel’s neck. He inhaled deeply, that scent of orange and leather and _pine_ , now. He would carry Geralt’s smell with him, forever. And he was going to block it all back down with stupid oils. Geralt understood. He did. But there was some rabid, feral part of him that wanted to smell this whenever he could. Wanted to be able to just grab Eskel in the middle of a room and inhale his scent. But he knew he couldn’t.

He had better control over himself, than that, and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Eskel’s safety. The idea of keeping Eskel all to himself, a _secret_ , was just as tantalizing as the idea of telling everyone who he belonged to.

“Can I help you put the oil on, at least?” Geralt asked when he finally pulled away. He didn’t miss the flush in Eskel’s face.

“I’d like that,” he said.

It took them a solid fifteen minutes before they even got out of the bed, and even then, they were slow. Geralt still needed to get dressed, and Eskel was more than happy to help. It was the first time that Geralt got to see a picture he seared right into the back of his mind. He’d gotten his breeches on, his shirt. When he sat down on the edge of the bed to work on his boots, Eskel had dropped down to his knees to put his boots on for him. Geralt gulped and just watched.

Eskel slipped his boots on, gentle touches to the back of Geralt’s calves. Then he laced them, slowly, ensuring they were pulled tight enough not to chafe but loose enough not to hurt. Then, he stood up. Geralt stood up in the same movement, suddenly taking Eskel by hold of his biceps. He sucked in a deep breath, then kissed Eskel hard. The way Eskel whined into the kiss, melted against him. Part of Geralt was thrilled, but the other part needed to make sure something was clear.

“We’re equals,” Geralt said, breath caught in his throat and panting when he pulled away. He pressed their foreheads together, squeezing Eskel’s arm. “Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

Eskel nodded. “You can put on my boots next time if it makes you feel better.” He cupped Geralt’s face in his hands, smirking.

They stood there like that for a moment, idly kissing and laughing between pecks, here or there. Geralt pressed his fingers right to the sides of Eskel’s neck, massaging over his scent glands. Taking that last deep inhale of something sweet and beautiful. Then, they had things to do. They had to get moved into their new quarters. They needed _food_. They might even just fall right back into normality and find a quiet place to train. They could fall down in the tall grasses where no one would see them and just _kiss_.

Once the moment was over, Geralt took careful time to dab the scent blocking oil over Eskel’s neck. The oil, itself, didn’t smell much like anything. Neither one of them knew how it was made, but one of the ingredients was enough to absorb whatever it was in Eskel’s scent that gave him away as an omega. The oil worked on alphas, too, to hide that’s what they were. Strong, because these oils were used for stealth missions and battle. They worked just as well for this. Hiding right in plain sight.

With the oil dealt with, they shared another kiss. They’d been up here since they survived the Grasses, and it was time now to finish what they needed to finish before training resumed the following day. They hadn’t even seen everyone, yet. It would be good for them.

Geralt led the way down, and while they were out of sight, they held hands. Once they hit the ground, their hands tore apart like a burn spread between them, and they made their way through the keep and to the bastion. Their things were already packed for them, mages and caretakers who were ready to kick the older boys out in turn for the younger boys who needed the space. It wouldn’t be the last they saw of these people, of course, but it was a bit bittersweet.

At Eskel’s request, Geralt went ahead with their things. He’d move it to the new room, in the trainee wing of the keep, and pick a bunk for them to share. Eskel went the opposite direction, poking through the different rooms until he found what he was looking for. Who he was looking for, more precisely. Mariette was pouring over a book when Eskel came in; it was a scene played out too many times, but this time, she looked up from her book before speaking to him.

“Good of you to show your face, again,” she said, an unchecked bit of fondness on her cheeks. “You seem to be doing well.”

Eskel nodded. “I’ve been sleeping,” he said. He lied.

“That’s the point of the break,” she said. “Grasses takes a lot out of the boys who survive.”

“What do you do with the ones that don’t?” Eskel winced at his own question. Mariette’s face softened as she closed her book. She stood, walked around the desk she was seated at, and leaned against its fine lacquered wood.

“We burn the bodies,” she said. “One of the boys didn’t make it an hour, and he was lucky. The rest of them died slowly, you understand. It’s an agonizing, lingering death.”

“You don’t too upset about it.”

“I can’t afford to be, Eskel. I’ve been at this place for years. Too long, I think, but I’ve administered that trial more than I care to recount. If I don’t steel myself for it, then I would die with them. Witchers are important. You understand that, don’t you?’

Eskel did understand. “I want to be one,” he said.

“Then you understand the sacrifices that have to be made. I’m sure all of those boys wanted to be one, but if they can’t survive that, there’s little hope they would survive the world. We don’t do it because we want to, we do it because it is necessary.” She folded her arms. “If you’re to make it to the age of your instructors, you will see the trial again. You’ll simply be the one carrying out bodies.”

Eskel grimaced. That made Mariette laugh.

“Don’t give me that look, boy. You’ll be centuries old before that happens. Won’t have to worry about a thing, you. Might not even remember your own trial, by then. I know how you boys get when you age. Memory is the first to go.”

That made Eskel smile, at least.

“You’ll be a good Witcher,” Mariette insisted. “Not often we get a few who care, and I think several of you do. It’s a nice change of pace. You’ll do just fine.”

Eskel nodded. “I know. It’s good to hear it, though.”

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing than talking to an old hag, then. Be on your way. You’ll still see me around. Not enough instructors at this place to go around in the summers.”

Eskel laughed, then nodded. He waved Mariette goodbye. He knew that she was right. It wasn’t exactly goodbye. The mages were everywhere, doing everything. Still, she was more focused on the younger boys. It meant that he might not see her as often, and she had always been something like a mother to him. She was kind. Stern and shrill enough at the best of times, but there were a few strings in her heart gone soft.

He hurried out of the room, then. Out in the yard, another class of boys was already being drilled hard. There were always new boys. Always boys dying, boys being brought in. Child surprises, orphans, children sold. More of them would die than would survive the training and the trials, but there were always more of them. There were even other Witcher schools, though Eskel didn’t know much about those.

He picked up into a run so he could catch up with Geralt. There was the slightest hope that he hadn’t stalled for too long and Geralt could still use his help, but that hope was quickly dashed when he entered their new barrack-like room. Geralt had already stashed their stuff away and taken up residence on the bottom bunk of one of the beds. He was lying there with his arms behind his back, looking as fine as he always did. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and his long, brown hair was pulled back into a tie.

“Geralt,” Eskel said, his boots announcing his presence before he spoke. “Got caught up talking with one of the mages. Did you get everything set up without me?”

Geralt nodded. “Do you approve of the choice of bed?” He asked, spreading out his arms.

There were six bunks total in the room, and this was the one farthest from the door, close up to the opposite wall.

“I do. Have you already chosen the bottom bunk, then?”

“Did you want it? I’m not exactly tied to it, one way or the other.” Geralt pulled himself up, scooting to the edge of the bed so he could put his feet on the ground. He patted the spot next to him, and Eskel happily took it. They were alone, for the moment, so Eskel happily leaned into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Would you be mad if I wanted the bottom bunk?”

Geralt shook his head. “I’d want you to have it.”

They were about to kiss, right there. They were alone, everything was silent, and there could be no better moment for it. They were only an inch apart when the door to the room burst right up. There wasn’t enough time to scramble apart before Gweld actually _saw_ them. Gardis approached quickly behind, but his eyes were at least spared. He wasn’t spared the resulting _screaming_ , though.

“I knew it!” Gweld shouted. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” Gweld all but threw himself on the bed, wedging himself in the few inches between Geralt and Eskel’s thighs to throw his arms around both of their shoulders and lurch forward.

“Tell me everything!” He insisted. “Geralt—Geralt, did you go for the flowers? Or the more direct approach of one big slobbering kiss right on the mouth?”

“The flowers?” Eskel frowned. “Is that what that was? When you—for potion brewing?”

Gweld burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Even Gardis chuckled from where he was standing, arms folded across his midsection.

“You told him they were for potions?” Gweld belted.

“That’s ridiculous,” Gardis agreed.

“More direct approach, then,” Gweld guessed. “What happened? Tell me what happened! How did you two get all snuggly while I wasn’t watching?”

“It just happened a few days ago,” Geralt grumbled, rubbing his hand down his face. “After Eskel woke up from the Grasses.”

“So new,” Gweld gasped, wiping a fake tear from his cheek. “Anyway,” he said, bouncing back up to his feet and turning on his heel so he could still look at them. His demeanor changed in an instant. “Happy for you. Sad that it took you this long. Bunch of morons.” Gweld elbowed Gardis in the side.

Gardis snickered. “Better late than never, hm?”

Gweld agreed, whole-heartedly. “Glad you guys survived, anyway.” Gweld folded his arms, and the whole room changed again. “I think I was the last one to wake up and waking up in that room on my own was hard.”

“I woke up first,” Geralt muttered. And all three of them looked at him.

He woke up within the first couple of days, though he couldn’t quite place when or where. He was taken back to his bed to rest it all off, but he remembered hearing them all talk. They’d never seen a boy take the Grasses as well as Geralt did, and he didn’t take that as a compliment. He almost wished that he hadn’t survived it, or if he had to, he would have suffered for days like the rest of them had. The mages had been talking about potentially administering _more_ trials.

It wouldn’t be now. It wouldn’t be until after he’d proved himself in the Trial of the Dreams, too. But they were definitely planning on doing something. At that point, he’d fallen straight back to sleep and hadn’t heard the rest.

“Shit.” Gweld was the first voice to shatter silence. “So, you survive the first round, and your reward is potentially dying the second time?”

Geralt shrugged. “Maybe it’s like the other trials, and it won’t kill me.” Still, he felt Eskel’s hand on his. Squeezing.

“There’s no way to be sure.” Gardis replied. “If you survived the Grasses, though, I’ve got no doubt you’ll survive whatever else they want to throw at you. You could be stronger than all of us, combined, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, as if he isn’t annoying enough.” Gweld snorted. Eskel smiled.

“He’d definitely piss Reven off if he turned out that way.”

“That,” Gweld patted Gardis on the shoulder, “is correct. That’s a bitch that needs to be put down.”

That set a bout of laughter off between the four of them. Gweld didn’t mean it, really. After so much death, losing another boy wasn’t something anyone wanted. They could still all agree that Reven could stand to be knocked down a notch or two.

Training resumed, and it was harder than anything they’d faced before. They weren’t training with Varin in the bastion, anymore. There were other classes of younger boys that needed the attention. They trained in the courtyards, now, with Vesemir. With other sword instructions. They would continue their weapons training, help with the signs. The boys would still be drilled in potions. Survival techniques would begin. They would even begin to face monsters that were nearby in the areas surrounding Kaer Morhen.

Five of them remained. Two alphas, two betas, and one omega. Officially, Eskel was also a beta. Late presentations did happen, but they were rare enough that they weren’t given much stock. If a boy hadn’t presented by now, he likely wouldn’t, and that was fine. As long as that boy could wield his weapons and survive on the Path, it didn’t matter if he were a beta or an alpha. Beta was almost a better option when it got down to a group this small, because the only thing Geralt and Reven knew how to do was fight.

They were just supposed to be sparring, but they had _real_ swords, this time. Real armor. Witchers never wore much armor, anyway, because they needed to be able to move quickly. They sacrificed protection in hopes that their reflexes would hold them out. If they couldn’t, then their death was rightful. This was just training, though. There was nothing at stake. But Reven pushed, brought on by a smell he didn’t quite understand and couldn’t place. All he knew was that it made him angry.

Reven was getting better, too. He didn’t quite match Geralt step for step, but he was better than he had been. Geralt couldn’t belt him right to his ass in one swipe, no. Geralt was faster, smarter, stronger, but Reven was two steps behind. Just enough to catch Geralt off guard, and instead of hitting him with the blunt of his sword, Reven struck at his side with the sharp of it and sliced Geralt right open.

Geralt didn’t falter, didn’t stop. He growled, snarled, and lunged forward. Now, the smell of blood was in the air. Attention’s caught. They clashed swords again and again, Geralt spinning back and forth on his heels to block and strike again. Reven pushed back, and neither one of them were gaining ground. But there was rage, electricity between them. The scent of _anger_. Neither one of them had anything to protect save their own innate alpha pride, and that seemed to be enough.

A Quen shield popped up as Geralt ducked down. Deflected the blow. Then, Geralt rose back up and struck his own on the end of his turn. Reven caught him, their swords sliding from left to right. Reven pushed off, using the leverage to get within a safe distance. Igni, then, and Geralt only barely managed to jump to the side before he was set aflame. Still bleeding. Geralt rushed forward with another heavy blow ready to land, but the blow never made it. The fire went down instantly, and they both heard their instructor shout.

“This is sparring!” The alpha man barked. “Not trying to kill each other! What the fuck are you two doing?”

They both went still, bowing their heads. Submission. Apology.

“You two don’t have to be friends, but for fuck’s sake, quit trying for murder! We need all the Witchers we can get. Best you not be offing each other.”

“I’d get you first,” Reven snorted, just under his breath.

“Yeah?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure.”

“Because you smell like an alpha with something to _lose_ ,” he spat. “It’s pathetic.”

Geralt frowned. He didn’t like the way that sounded, because it sounded like Reven was picking up on something he didn’t need to know. The problem was, Geralt didn’t know enough about anything to pick it apart. Did alphas smell different, too, when they bonded? Was that what Reven was picking up on? Or was he taking his best guess with something vague and Geralt had filled in the information for himself? Either way, Geralt shouldn’t have dignified it with a response, but Reven saw his frown and laughed.

Their instructor barked at them again. If they spent any more time fucking around, they’d be off running the Killer until they passed out, and then he’d make them run it again when they woke up. That was a threat enough to get them back to the task at hand, but Geralt couldn’t quite shake the feeling. Maybe Reven didn’t know something, but by the gods, when he found something out, it was going to be dangerous.

It was sometime in mid-May when Eskel woke with a sudden jolt. It was still morning, before the sun had even breached over the horizon. Too early, but the sickness hit him like a brick over the face. He barely had time to scramble out of bed and grab for the nearest bucket. His retching didn’t wake anyone, thankfully, but he vomited up most of what he ate the night before. He heaved, after that, until his throat ached, and his stomach hurt. Until there was nothing left, not even spit, Eskel coughed into that bucket.

He must have eaten something bad the night before. Gone right through him and made him sick. Eskel leaned on the bucket for support for a long minute before he found any strength. Still, nobody was awake. Which was good. He was left to himself while he found something to wipe off his chin. The corner stank of vomit, but the smell didn’t do anything to set him off. If he was truly nauseous, truly sick, it might have. So, it had to have been something he ate. He’d go through the list of food and not repeat it, hoping that would be enough to curb this.

The illness just seemed to get worse, not better. It didn’t matter what he ate. He wasn’t ill enough to ask for a break, but he ached from head to toe and vomited twice before breakfast. Vesemir would sooner lash him then give him a day off from training, given the circumstances. He just had to fight through it. It was just nausea, which he could deal with. He could vomit here or there and then be fine, even if sometimes it left him a bit dizzy. That was the heat. Spring was going to turn to summer, soon, and that meant things were getting hotter.

There was one day in particular where Eskel was just supposed to be practicing signs. It was that simple. One cast of Igni had him straight on the ground, and the rest of training stopped. Everyone but Reven had to surround him, but the shade from the sun was quite welcome. Eskel had an arm around his chest, _bothered_ by the ache there, and his other hand on his head. He couldn’t think straight, and he was tired. Something he’d eaten, maybe, but now he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t sleeping well.

“Eskel,” Geralt’s voice rang out first as he dropped down to his knees, a hand on Eskel’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Get back to your training!” Vesemir shouted, shooing them away. “Tan your hides if you don’t!”

Geralt _almost_ shot Vesemir a glare, but he couldn’t. He just squeezed Eskel’s shoulder and tucked himself off, back to what he was doing. Vesemir took his spot, kneeling down to look at Eskel.

“You alright, boy?”

Eskel nodded. “Must have eaten something bad,” he said. “I haven’t been feeling well.”

“You’ll get to bed early tonight, then,” Vesemir said. “Don’t dally in the hall eating if it’ll just make you sick.”

“I understand, Master.”

“Good boy. Take a minute and get your bearings, then it’s right back to work.” No real time to rest, as Eskel feared.

Vesemir went back to his shouting and his mistake correcting. The training was important. Eskel was glad for his meager moment, though. It was hot, and he was breathing hard. He felt like he might vomit again at any moment, but he just swallowed it down, bile and all. He pulled himself to his feet after a minute, stumbled, but found his bearings. He could push through the nausea and the fatigue. He’d just go to sleep early that night, like Vesemir said. In the morning, he would be fine.

Only, he wasn’t exactly fine. It all came and went like waves. There was a week stretch where he felt right back at the top of his game, and the week after he vomited three times in one day. He rode the ups and downs as well as he could, and just did what he had to do. Even when that meant pissing every hour, on the hour, and gagging at the very smell of food. His training was important, and no weird summer bug was going to take him away from it.

The illness didn’t subside for weeks. It came and it went, and it caused the strangest things. Eskel felt bloated. There was swelling in his neck, in his chest. It was harder to notice, because the more he trained the bigger he got, but he could _feel_ it. He thought if he just drank enough water, it’d go down. And it did, but it came back. With the nausea and the fatigue and the vomiting. On and off. Eskel tried changing what he was eating. Tried _just_ eating mushrooms, herbs, and mosses. Tried eating nothing.

Nothing seemed to work.

August brought storms, even to Kaer Morhen. Normally, heavy rain didn’t stop them from training, but it was as good a day as any to work solely on the books, notes, and the potions. So much of training to be a Witcher just meant reading books that were bigger than a book ought to be. They had to learn the monsters, memorize what they did and what they were weak to, and then be able to regurgitate the information on command. It seemed tedious but knowing that amount of information would mean they were never unprepared.

It was peaceful enough. Geralt and Eskel sat next to each other on the same bench, same table. They couldn’t distract each other, but they could hook their ankles together beneath the table as a sign of _something_. At any other point, it would have been comforting, but Eskel was caught up with something entirely different on his mind. He’d read the same passage about botchlings no less than five times before he finally decided he couldn’t focus another second without getting this off his chest.

“Geralt,” he whispered, leaning just subtly enough to his right that they wouldn’t be caught whispering, but Geralt could hear him.

Geralt didn’t respond with more than a hum. He was listening, but he turned the page in his book to help the facade.

“Skip tonight’s meal with me,” Eskel said. “Meet me in our room. Please.”

It wasn’t _their_ room, but Geralt knew which one it was. Come winter, the Witchers would return, and that room would belong to someone, again. For the moment, it was their room. It was a quiet place where they could hide, and though they hadn’t been able to make much use of it, it was still there for them. They’d been sufficing with quick kisses after the lanterns went out and holding hands under tables.

Geralt nodded. “I’ll meet you.”

Eskel took a shuddering breath and returned to his studies. It was easier to focus, but still not so easy that he could read some of this without feeling the urge to vomit. The only thing keeping him steady was Geralt, who didn’t even seem to realize what he was doing, but there was this _smell_ that came out of him. Enough to soothe Eskel. It left a slight tingle in his neck, but it helped. Eskel could get back to work, reading his book and taking his notes, knowing that they would have the evening to themselves.

The day dragged on. As comforting as the thought of an evening rendezvous was, it also just made Eskel anxious. Because he wanted it to be _now_ , not later. He was terrified, and as much as he needed the mirror in the room to know the truth, he needed Geralt to tell him it would be alright. There was no one else he could tell.

At first, he’d just thought it was fat. With how sick he’d been, maybe he hadn’t been working as hard as he could have. He was still eating a hefty amount, but if he wasn’t working as hard, then it made sense that it would accumulate. The problem with that theory was that all the extra size was _firm_. He could tell the difference; since his first heat, he had gotten a bit wider. But all of that was centralized in his hips and his thighs. This new size was on his chest and his stomach.

He tried not to think about any of it, until the day was coming to an end and they were allowed a late evening to themselves. Eskel was supposed to go to bed early; he was exhausted and sick, as well as under Vesemir’s _suggestion_ to do so. That made it easy enough to slip out of the mess hall, but he didn’t go to bed. He went to their room. He rushed to it, nearly tripping up the stairs as he did. But he got there, in one piece, and made sure the door was shut behind him.

Geralt was still in the mess hall, but Eskel wasn’t going to wait for him. He started peeling off his shirt as he walked into the room. He crossed the room, shirt over his head, and threw it onto the bed as he passed it. He didn’t bother with anything else. Just the shirt. His boots were even still on as he approached the mirror. All that mattered was the shirt, so he could see this.

He wanted to vomit. He looked at himself, and all he could see were the botchlings from the books that morning. There was a _reason_ this wasn’t supposed to be, because no one knew what would come of it. Eskel had been given mutagens for as long as he could remember. Then, the Grasses left him with these yellow eyes, the enhanced senses. He’d been taken apart and put back together. Outside, he looked the same, but everything else was more fucked up than he could imagine. Nobody knew what that would _mean_.

Eskel put a hand over his mouth and just. Stared. He didn’t have the strength to turn to the side and prove it, because he wanted to be wrong. He didn’t want this to be happening. He was so wrapped up in how much he _didn_ _’t_ that he didn’t hear the door open. He only saw Geralt when Geralt walked up behind him and was visible in the mirror. He looked worried, but worse he looked like he understood without the explanation. He just knew.

“Eskel—”

“Don’t say anything,” Eskel said. He breathed in a shuddering breath and let it back out. Once, twice. Trying to keep himself from panicking.

He had _breasts_. They were small, still growing, but they were there. They looked so horribly out of place on him, because he was big. He’d been putting on muscle. Getting _stronger_. The mutagens had allowed him to surpass what he might have otherwise looked like without them. He looked like a strong, brick of a man. And he had breasts. Pert, swollen nipples right in the center of growing mounds.

They didn’t exactly cover this in their daily lessons. No one had ever sat him down and told him anything. The only things he knew were what Vesemir knew, and Vesemir had never claimed to be an expert. The man had probably never come in contact with a male omega before. He hadn’t _known_. If he had, maybe he would have done something. Eskel hadn’t wanted this. This hadn’t been the purpose of sharing his heat with Geralt. He’d just wanted the bond. That’s it. That’s all. And this was what he was left with.

Geralt stepped up behind Eskel. They were the same height. Eskel might have even thought that he was getting taller than Geralt. Might have been bigger than him, too. But how long would that last? Would they let him keep training? Would he have to give everything up? He’d already undergone the Grasses; there was no taking that back. The only option he _had_ , now, was to be a Witcher. But. This. What did it mean for him?

Eskel gave a weak nod in response to that look in Geralt’s eyes, and then Geralt was wrapping his arms around Eskel’s waist. They were pressed together, and Geralt breathed right over the nape of Eskel’s neck.

“You’re pregnant,” Geralt muttered.

Eskel nodded. “I’m pregnant.” Geralt could smell it on him, which meant it wouldn’t be long before the other alphas in the keep could, too. Scent blockers wouldn’t be enough. Even if they were enough, it wouldn’t be long until they could _see_.

“Just wear loose clothes,” Geralt said. “No one has to know. Do—” Geralt gulped. “I’m sure one of the mages knows something. I could get them to be discreet. If you—”

“ _No_ ,” Eskel hissed. “I’m not—gods, Geralt, I’m not killing our baby.” Eskel turned in Geralt’s arms, resting his hands at Geralt’s neck. He breathed, deeply. “Just—what if it’s a monster?” He couldn’t get the image of a botchling out of his head. He wished he had read about any other monster. “What if it dies? What if _I_ die?”

“We won’t let that happen,” Geralt insisted, dragging his fingers back through Eskel’s hair. “You’ll get through this. We’ll find a way. Keep you hidden, if we can. I—”

“Clothes won’t hide this! Not for long. Just—look at me!” Eskel pushed back, away from Geralt, and spread his arms out. “Clothes can’t hide this, forever. And what if it does? Are you going to sneak me down the mountain to have my baby in a tavern somewhere? What if we can’t make it to town? Say we do, and this— _thing_ is born down there? You think we can just bring it back up? Oh, don’t mind the fact that we’ve been gone for three weeks. We just found a child somewhere along the path and brought it back.”

“Eskel—”

“They won’t let me keep training, will they? Fuck the fact that I survived the Grasses. Turns out that I have a cunt, so I’m not good enough to be a Witcher. But what do I do with my life? Walk around as some half-mutated freak and just, what, start a farm? Single mother with my mutant baby—” what if it was a _monster_? “—and just hope nobody comes and kills us with pitch forks?”

“ _Eskel_ —”

“What about you? What if they find out that _you_ _’re_ the father? Will they punish you, too? Say you can’t be a Witcher? I mean, _fuck_ , Geralt, we’re sixteen—”

“ _Eskel!_ _”_ Geralt shouted. He actually shouted. And the boom in his voice came from a deep place in his throat that sounded so much like an alpha that Eskel’s voice broke immediately. No choice but to submit. _Forced_ to shut up because his alpha was angry at him. The last thing he wanted was for Geralt to be angry with him. He was already so angry at himself for letting this happen.

Eskel covered his mouth with his hands and collapsed on himself, dropping down into a squat because his knees couldn’t hold him, upright. Geralt regretted what he’d done, instantly. He didn’t mean to do it. Didn’t know what he was doing. The sound had come out of his throat before he’d even known what it was. He rushed forward as quickly as he could, dropping down to Eskel’s level and just. Hesitating. Not sure if he should touch and getting nothing from Eskel to say that he could, so he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, quickly. “I—I don’t know what came over me. That wasn’t—I’m not angry. Eskel, please, just listen to me. If you don’t want this, then we’ll get rid of it.”

Eskel shook his head. “Just because I didn’t want kids doesn’t mean I want to _kill_ one, Geralt. This is ours!”

“Then we have to figure something out.”

“There’s nothing _to_ figure out! They’ll—” Eskel choked on his own breath and covered his mouth again, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. What if their baby was a monster? What if it wasn’t, and the Witchers still killed it anyway? What if they killed _him_? Vesemir hadn’t told him what happened to omegas in Kaer Morhen, only that it wasn’t a good place to be one. He could run away, but that left him in a situation where two half-mutants were trying to live a normal life. They’d die, just the same.

“Eskel,” Geralt said his name firmly and finally broke past his own hesitation to take a hard hold of his shoulders. “I will _not_ let them hurt you. I will do everything that I can, you have to believe me.”

“I do.” Eskel’s voice was weak. “That doesn’t mean I believe you can beat them all. I’m—” Eskel sucked in a deep breath. “This is my problem. If it comes down to it, don’t be a part of it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying don’t get yourself killed for me, Geralt! Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen, and it’s my burden. I’m the omega. _Please_ , don’t fuck yourself over for me.”

Geralt swallowed. His chest _ached_ hearing that. He fell forward onto his knees and pulled Eskel into his chest, holding him. Just holding him for a long, long moment with his head against Eskel’s. Between them was nothing more than that awful, putrid scent of an omega in distress. Eskel was on the verge of panicking, if he wasn’t already there. Geralt just wanted to calm him down. Wanted to protect him, if he could.

“If you wanted to through this thing on your own,” Geralt said, “then, you should have gotten yourself a different fucking alpha. I will fight every damned Witcher in this keep if I have to. You will not do this alone.”

There was more he wanted to say. Their baby wouldn’t be a monster. Eskel _would_ survive. If he could survive the Grasses, then childbirth wouldn’t kill him. He’d find a way. Geralt would do anything he could to find a way to make this work, but he had no ideas. No suggestions. His words would ring like empty promises, so all he could do was just be there. Offer himself up as a place of support, of warmth. Eskel felt so weak in his arms, so defeated. It wasn’t _him_ , but it was the moment. The situation. Neither of them knew what to do, and there was no one they could call on for help.

All Eskel could try to do was hide it. Hopefully, he could. That would give them enough time to figure something out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry nothing is good
> 
> chapter warnings: sexism, mentions of a minor in sexual situations, imprisonment

When Eskel was called out from training, he was terrified. If it had been Vesemir, he might have taken notice of Eskel’s current _condition_ and just offered some strange look of pity. He would have worked Eskel just as hard as the other four, and maybe talked to him later in the evening. Eskel might have even felt pressured enough to tell him what was going on, because Vesemir might have been able to help him. But this wasn’t Vesemir. This was just another sword instructor who, after belting out orders for the rest of them, took Eskel off to the side.

Over the past couple of weeks, Eskel had developed this nervous habit of wringing his hands out in front of his stomach like that was going to somehow make it look smaller and not actually draw attention. He’d been wearing looser clothing, but he was running out of options. The only thing he could do next was steal clothes from the personal stores of Witchers, and there clearly wasn’t time to make that decision. Maybe the instructor had noticed something else, but Eskel wasn’t putting much stock in that.

“Don’t look so nervous, boy,” the instructor bit. The rough of his voice made Eskel jump, and he hated that. He was trying _not_ to do that every time an alpha spoke to him, but it was hard not to. Every fiber of his being was singing one tune, and that was _protect the baby_. Alphas who were not his posed a threat, even if he didn’t know why. Eskel was on edge, constantly. Ready to snap, but unsure of what he’d do if he did.

“Been noticing that you’re getting a bit hefty, and normally that doesn’t happen so quick once you go through the Grasses. Just want to make sure something’s not about to snap and kill you. You’re doing good; be nice to see you make it through the whole process.”

Eskel gulped. “Th-thank you,” he said, because he did appreciate it. He just knew that he wouldn’t be able to.

He followed the instructor because he had to. Everything was screaming at him to take his chances and run, but he couldn’t. He’d be caught, maybe beaten. It was easier just to follow, even if his heart thumped harder with every step that he took. They were going to the mages. This instructor seemed to think something was _wrong_ with him, like maybe something hadn’t taken the way that it was supposed to and caused a mutation it wasn’t supposed to cause. If that was the case, they needed to study it.

They would find the baby. Eskel squeezed his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and felt distinctly ill, all over again. It’d only been a month. He’d only been able to hide for a _month_ , and he was sure that was only thanks to his size. If he hadn’t had the chance to grow like he did, the baby would have been visible so much earlier. He wouldn’t have lasted so long. What were they going to do when they found the baby? Eskel thought he might vomit in the hall as the possibilities flowed through his head.

He felt like he was walking to his execution. The instructor was still talking to him, trying to get him to calm down. To relax. His shoulders were hunched up to his jaw, and he wanted to be anywhere but here. Sixteen. He’d had sixteen good, long years, maybe. Geralt had been the brightest part of it. Eskel didn’t remember much from his past. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here, though he might think to ask, one day. All he knew of his mother was she used to sing to him, but he heard the songs in his own voice, now.

The instructor led him to a gathering room, and that was where the mages were. Just three of them, though. None of them were Mariette, and Eskel was almost glad for that. He didn’t know what she would think of him if she knew what he was or what he’d done.

“Wait here,” the instructor ordered, and Eskel stayed put. The instructor walked up to the mages and explained the situation, that he thought something abnormal was going on. Maybe Eskel was reacting poorly to the mutagens, or maybe he was reacting better to them than even Geralt had. If an accelerated growth rate was suddenly possible, so were a whole world of other things. Either way, it was worth taking a look.

Eskel was going to be sick. He was beckoned into the middle of the room, so he went. He didn’t have a choice. He missed his chance to run, and even if he’d taken it, he’d still be right here. There was nowhere for him to go. Just forward. Where he stood in the middle of the room with inquisitive eyes on him. The instructor had stepped back, and the mages had stepped up. There were three of them, but only one approached close enough to actually attend to Eskel.

A light awoke from the mage’s hand, and she waved it over the length of Eskel’s body, whispers on her lips. Words Eskel didn’t know. She traveled his height three times, her eyes widening with each pass. Her pupils were blown. She couldn’t believe what she was finding, and Eskel understood. He couldn’t believe it either. If not for the looseness of his shirt, she’d have been able to see the protrusion of his stomach. She’d have been able to see his perky little tits, not quite fully developed and still strangely firm to the touch.

Her head shot up. “It’s mutated,” she said. “This boy is pregnant, and the fetus is _mutated_ —” She stood. Her fear radiated, and it was contagious.

There wasn’t enough time to get away. Eskel couldn’t run fast enough to escape the turmoil as it played out in front of him. The instructor grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind him, above his head, trying to keep him _still_. Eskel struggled, arched, and threw himself up to kick where he could use his hands. He didn’t want these people near him, but they were coming closer, closer—one of the mages fled out the side door. The other two were focused on him.

He scrambled and tried to fight his way out of the hold. The mage had said his baby was mutated, but he didn’t _care_. It was his baby, and his baby was in danger. He was going to do whatever he could to protect it, because it was _his_. The way they were looking at him was terrifying. Trying to still him. Corral him. They weren’t looking at a sixteen-year-old boy, anymore, but a subject. Something to tear apart and look at, study. They were going to kill him—kill his baby. Rip it right out of him and cut it open right before his eyes just to see what it was.

No. _No_. Eskel screamed. He shouted. He struggled. He didn’t know what was happening, just that there was talking, bickering, the light of _magic_ —no, he wouldn’t let them. He twisted, nearly throwing the instructor over the top of him with a bout of strength he didn’t know he possessed. He chomped down on the man’s arm, left him screaming, and jolted off to the side. Towards the door. He had to run. He had to get out of here. But he didn’t get very far.

The first rush of magic flew right by his head. He knew the second one was coming, but he didn’t have time. In his mind, he saw himself dropping to the floor, a Quen shield around him. In reality, his mind was too fogged to think straight, too high on the sudden rush of adrenaline. There was blood in his mouth, the taste of flesh. His heart was in his head, _fear_ in his chest. And the second blast of magic hit him right in the back, sending him straight to the floor.

He barely had time to catch himself before he hit the wood. Wouldn’t hurt his baby. Couldn’t. He couldn’t think, either. His mind was addled, his ears ringing. Everything was going black at the edges of his sight. But they’d done what they wanted. Succeeded in calming a menace. There were few things more dangerous than an omega looking to protect their child, and they’d still managed to get Eskel onto his hands and knees. He wasn’t there for long, but his struggle renewed when his instructor pulled him off the ground, back in that hold.

He saw that magic. Knew what it might do.

“No!” Eskel shouted, struggling. “No—no—leave it alone! _Please_ —!”

The door flew open in the next second, and while the magic didn’t die, it stilled in front of him. The male mage had been the one to cast the spell, and he stopped. The woman stopped. Everything went still as they looked at who entered the room, followed by the third mage who had run off. A man, one that Eskel didn’t know the name of. He had brown hair, wound up into a fanciful braided knot at the back of his head. Another alpha mage, but these two in front of Eskel were betas. He could smell it.

“What is going on here?” It was Rennes. Rennes, leader of the Wolves and head of Kaer Morhen, walked right into their little squabble, eyebrows raised with anger and hands folded behind his back. “I say: what is the meaning of this!?”

“The boy’s an omega,” the woman blurted, all at once. Rennes’ gaze somehow darkened. “The boy’s fetus is mutated. I don’t know how, but—”

“Silence,” Rennes snapped. “Ludyn told me what your argument was. Fight of whether to kill the boy and the baby or just the baby, hm?” Rennes frowned, stepping into the room. For a moment, it sounded like things might even be alright, like Rennes condemned both ideas. Eskel wouldn’t let himself get comfortable. There’d be no order to let him go. No order to let things go about as normal. No order to simply forget this had happened. Which meant his fate was still up in the air, not in his own hands, anymore.

“We could study it,” the male mage argued. “There has never _been_ a Witcher who conceived before. That child could be—”

“The boy is not a Witcher,” Rennes said. “Too young. Training to become one, maybe.” Rennes grabbed Eskel by the chin, looking at him like he was suddenly nothing more than meat. “How old are you, boy?”

“Sixteen,” Eskel responded, though his voice was strained. It was taking all of his strength not to lash back out. That wouldn’t help him. But every instinct was telling him to fight. Protect his baby.

“Passed the Grasses, then. The Dreams in two years. Very sneaky of you.” Rennes grinned, and it was nothing kind. “Did you convince one of the younger boys to fuck you, then? Omegas, you know. Oh, they try, but they can’t resist the urge for motherhood.”

Eskel bit down on his tongue and frowned.

Rennes let go of his chin and turned back to the mages. “There’s an old room that was once used for omegas. It’s been awhile since Kaer Morhen had one, but we should at least give it proper accommodations.” He turned to face the mages. “Let it have its child. You can study it then, _live_ , and we’ll see just what this thing can make for us.” Then, Rennes looked back to Eskel.

Eskel felt nothing but dread. There was bile in his throat, fear in his chest. He wanted to fight. He wanted to hide. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted _Geralt_.

“If this mutant child of its proves to be something grand, then I don’t see why we can’t have _more_ , hm?” Rennes offered a deceptively small smile as he took Eskel’s chin again, stroking Eskel’s cheek with his thumb. “Maybe this can’t be a Witcher, anymore, but it can certainly birth us some.”

Eskel’s eyes went wide.

“Take it off,” Rennes ordered, voice firm. “I don’t want to see it again! It will not leave that room, or it will be _killed_.”

“No!” Eskel shouted. “Let me go—!” Rennes slapped him right across the face, but that wasn’t enough to silence him.

Rennes left, after that. Eskel was dragged through the same door he’d been brought through, kicking and screaming. Fighting to get out of this, but he couldn’t. No matter how he twisted, screamed, and fought, the hold on him was absolute. Dragged right from the building and back out into the yard, still shrieking and violent. There wasn’t a soul in Kaer Morhen who couldn’t hear him. Wouldn’t see him being dragged across the grass, escorted by three mages and one alpha instructor.

Vesemir saw him from high up on one of the walls and knew exactly what happened. He was angry. Angry at Eskel. Angry at the scene in front of him. Just _angry_. If he had just better known what to tell the pup, this wouldn’t have happened. But it was happening, which meant the only fight left now was trying to undo it. Vesemir knew exactly what he had to do, but he couldn’t help but notice whom one of the mages was. Ludyn. The very mage he would have trusted not to be a part of this. Escorting Eskel off, screaming and belligerent. Vesemir was furious.

Geralt heard him before he saw Eskel, and the sound of his shrieks set off something awful, deep, and terrible right in Geralt’s gut. It was rage. It was beyond rage. It was something so completely base and feral that the only thing that came from Geralt’s mouth as he turned around was a horrible growl, right from the gut. He tried to go to Eskel. _His_ Eskel. All thought abandoned in place for just this pure rage, this pure need to protect and to fight.

“Leave it, pup!” The instructor shouted, but Geralt didn’t hear him. He was running, now, trying to make it fast enough.

He wouldn’t. One of the mages picked up and threw a blast of magic straight towards Geralt. That was enough time for Gweld and Gardis to catch him to him. Because _gods_ even if it hurt to see what was happening, Geralt couldn’t throw his own place away for it. Eskel wouldn’t want him too—didn’t want him to. Geralt would get himself killed trying to fight a losing battle, so they grabbed him before he could break off into a run together.

“Let me go!” Geralt shouted. “They have—Eskel!”

Eskel could hear him. Struggled, called back for him, _fought_ to get to him. But there was nothing to be done. Eskel couldn’t get himself free, and Geralt would never get to him. That was it. Right there, in the middle of the courtyard. It was over. Their secret was found, and everything had been ripped right apart.

Geralt stopped struggling once Eskel was gone, dragged through a door. The door closed and locked tight. Strength left him, completely, and Geralt fell right back down into the grass. It felt something like death, right there, knowing that his omega was in trouble and he wasn’t strong enough to help him.

“Well,” Reven huffed from behind, arms folded. “Who the fuck would have thought? The big bad wolf went and got himself a puppy.” Reven laughed to himself. “Somehow, I got a feeling that puppy’s about to become a bitch. How’s that for you, Geralt?”

Geralt surged right back up again, turning on his heel. He couldn’t fight the whole keep, but he could fight Reven. He could rip Reven limb from limb, shred him down into bits of pieces so fucked up that no one would even know it was him. No one would even recognize him. But Geralt didn’t make it more than one step; Gweld’s hand was on his chest, keeping him right where he was.

“It’s not worth it,” Gweld sad. “You need to think about Eskel, right now. Reven can fuck himself.”

Geralt breathed through his nose and calmed. Eskel. He needed to think about Eskel, how to help him. Was rescuing him even possible? Even if it wasn’t, he’d find a way. Somehow.

The room wasn’t clean, and it certainly wasn’t ready for anyone to be confined to it for the rest of their natural life, but that didn’t matter. Eskel could see past the filth for the terror that was there. There were pegs in the stone wall from which were hung chains. There were _chains_. Cuffs. Nothing more than a bed and some alchemical contraption that might have very well been meant for keeping him alive. This room was a grave, and Eskel was still trapped in his instructor’s hold while the mages at least changed the seats.

It was horrifically odd, and it made Eskel sick. They’d just made him a prisoner in his own home. Rennes had said he would never leave this room again. Why take the time to make sure he wasn’t living in filth? There were no windows in the room, just a few dusty braziers. A lantern provided the only light, for now, which left everything dark and musty. Eskel wanted to vomit. He wanted to just be dead. This was what his life held in store for him, now. It didn’t _matter_ that he’d passed the Grasses. He wasn’t going to be a Witcher.

He wasn’t going to travel the Path with Geralt. He wasn’t going to have their baby in peace. He wouldn’t get to kiss Geralt again, hold him. Be held, in return. Be _loved_. They hadn’t said the words, but that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Geralt had tried to get to him. Eskel was almost glad that he didn’t. Geralt still had a chance, and he couldn’t throw it away for Eskel. Eskel never even had one. If they’d even known he was an omega, they would have never brought him to Kaer Morhen.

Or, they would have, and he would have known this room much earlier.

When the sheets were changed and some meager pick up done, Eskel was dragged over to the bed. Pushed onto it. That was his chance, and he immediately started to struggle again. To fight. To scream, snarl, and bite. It took all of them to get him down. The instructor had crawled on top of him, straddled him, and pushed him down so hard into the mattress that Eskel thought his bones might break. But they wouldn’t care if his bones broke, would they? As long as they could take his baby from him, that’s all they cared about.

Almost instantly, he felt the sting of the cuffs. Dimeritium cuffs were snapped right around his wrists. The chains were long enough that he would be able to travel the room, but that was a _privilege_. They could be tightened. Leave him entirely immobile, if they so chose. They didn’t, for now, because Eskel calmed. But he could feel the dimeritium digging into his skin. He’d always been told he was exceptional with the signs, the magic that Witchers could do. And now it was gone. He couldn’t protect himself.

“There,” the instructor grunted. “Fucking—done with that. Bitch made it hard enough. What do we do now?”

The woman shrugged. “We wait until the baby is born. If the baby is viable, well.” She looked at Eskel. “As Rennes said. It’s like producing our own Witchers.”

“ _Please_ ,” Eskel whimpered. “Just let me go—”

“Silence,” she snapped. “Orders have to be followed, and you’d do well to just do what your told. It’ll be easier for you.” She looked him over. “Might be the difference between getting to keep your baby.”

That shut Eskel up, instantly, and she even seemed to laugh. Omegas were all the same.

When they left, it was with a promise to return later. If there were others who would join him in this room, it needed to be properly cleaned and outfitted. They would send in help to do that in the following day, after plans were made. Eskel would not be told of the plans, because now that he was an omega, he was nothing. He was at least useful, but in all of the ways he didn’t want to be. He hadn’t exactly wanted a child beforehand, and now that he was going to have one, the general air in the room said it wouldn’t be the last one he had.

Now, as he slumped into the pillows in an empty room, he hoped the baby was a monster. As much as he liked the image that he saw, a beautiful and _normal_ baby in his arms, Geralt beside them, he didn’t want it. He couldn’t want it. He wanted his child to be the picture of horror, something disgusting and wrong. That’s the only thing left that would keep him safe. If he proved that Witchers didn’t have children because the children were horrors. Maybe the baby would be stillborn. Deformed. Three eyes and an extra arm growing out of its back. _Anything_.

Eskel curled up on his side, the clank of the chains making comfort difficult. They stung, and already, he could see horrid black like veins spreading down his wrists from where the metal made contact with his skin. He closed his eyes and realized, then, just how cold it was in the room. He was cold. Shivering. Alone. No matter how much he wanted to hate this baby, to see it born a monster, he still wrapped his arms around his waist protectively.

Vesemir met Ludyn in the hall on the way down to the mages’ quarters. There was no hesitation; the moment Vesemir saw Ludyn, he pushed away from the wall and grabbed Ludyn by the arm, jerking him back and to the side. It was enough that Ludyn gasped out. Pain. Confusion. He met Vesemir’s gaze and nearly crumbled underneath it. They’d always known which of them was the stronger alpha. Very few people ever willingly crossed paths with Vesemir. Ludyn would have chosen to be anywhere else, but he was here.

“What did you do?” Vesemir growled. “I _trusted_ you, and you’re right there, dragging that poor pup off like that? What came over you?” His voice raised, angrier with the passing seconds.

“I didn’t know what to do!” Ludyn replied. “They were arguing over whether to kill him and the baby or just kill the baby! By the gods, Vesemir, you could have at least _told_ me something.”

“The second I asked for those heat potions, you must have been able to put something together on your own. You’re not _stupid_ , Ludyn, you never have been!”

“I didn’t know what Rennes would do to him.”

Vesemir’s heart nearly stopped.

“Rennes wants him to have the baby. Wants to see what the baby _is_ , and if it’s a good, strong, healthy baby?” Ludyn snorted. “I’m sorry, Vesemir. I didn’t know! If I’d known he was going to sign your boy up to be Kaer Morhen’s personal breeder, then I wouldn’t have told him!”

“But he’s just a boy,” Vesemir argued. The other omegas had at least been _older_. A little bit more equipped to handle the life they were thrown into, even if it still ultimate resulted into their deaths. Eskel was younger. Less prepared. They would kill him, too, if they weren’t careful.

“And perfectly fertile. Do you think Rennes cares how old he is? We need more trainees. We always need more, with how many don’t survive the training. If this is a free way to get some, then he’s going to do it.”

Vesemir finally let Ludyn’s arm go as he slumped back against the wall. Ludyn tore his arm away and stepped away, unwilling to let himself be caught again.

“You’ve been around here longer than I have. You should have known what would happen, and _you_ should have done something about it. Did you even tell the boy what would happen if he was found out?”

“Gods,” Vesemir grumbled. “He was thirteen, Ludyn. I wasn’t about to scar him for the rest of his life.”

“More than happy to whip the pups when they need it, but can’t tell one the things he needs to know to survive?” Ludyn scoffed. “You’re going soft. You’re not quite old enough to be going soft.”

Vesemir just shook his head.

“Do you know who the father is?”

Vesemir nodded. “I have an idea, at least.”

“Then, I think the best thing you can do for that boy right now is find a way that he doesn’t spend the rest of his life in there alone.” Ludyn waved himself off, then, an unceremonious farewell.

Vesemir didn’t bother to follow, because Ludyn was right. The best thing he could do would be to find a way to let Geralt see Eskel. They were bonded, though. Vesemir had seen the bond mark. If it had just been a baby, then maybe something could be done, but there was almost no chance of letting an omega’s bonded alpha into a situation like this. Geralt was only sixteen. He was good at what he did. He was strong, stoic, but he _cared_. He wasn’t old enough to have learned how to control baser urges.

Still, it was the best chance either of them had. Maybe being able to see Eskel through this would be enough to keep Geralt in control.

With that decided, Vesemir left the mages’ wing. It was too soon to go and see Rennes about this. Everything had just happened, and if Vesemir walked up there now, it would be a fight instead of a discussion. They were all three meeting—him, Rennes, and Barmin—at the end of the week to discuss the newest trainees, anyway. Vesemir would just bring it up then. He needed the time to cool off. Nothing was going to happen until the baby was born, which meant he at least had _time_.

Time was turning into a rather scarce commodity. For mutants who veritably lived forever, this wasn’t a situation Vesemir was used to being in.

They met in a sort of drawing room. Kaer Morhen was as functional a castle as could be, built up into the hard and snowy mountains. With its plenty of rooms came plenty of places to meet in silence, regardless of how many people may or may not have been in the keep. The fire was roaring, and though there were enough chairs pulled up on the ugly carpet, Vesemir chose to stand. He was leaning near the hearth, listening to the basic pleasantries exchanged, always, before they got to talking.

Stores were discussed, inventories; what things needed to be repaired, replaced; were the horses still in good health or was there cause for acquiring more? Vesemir just listened to it. He didn’t have much to add; he was just a sword instructor. He had sway because he was one of the oldest surviving Witchers. Old enough that being out on the Path was much less a good idea than it was to stay within the keep and train the new generation. It was precisely the new generation that concerned him, because just where did Rennes intend to get it from?

He was riding a hair-thing string, waiting for the right moment and hoping that it wouldn’t unleash flame. Rennes and Barmin were just talking, each comfortably seated in their chairs. It was edging into October, now. Soon, Winter would be following, and they needed to make sure that the keep was properly stocked for the return of the Witchers. They had time, of course, but it was always better to start earlier. And that was the end of that. The beginning of the next topic.

“How are the trainees?” Rennes asked, and that was the first question that had been directed towards Vesemir.

“Indeed,” Vesemir responded, pushing away from the hearth. He took on an inquisitive look, arms half-folded so he could rest his chin on his thumb. Closed off. Restraining himself. “The trainees. One of which I believe you just ordered locked up for what I’ve come to understand is the rest of his _life_.”

Rennes frowned. “And you take issue with it? It’s hardly a trainee; it’s an omega. There’s better things we can do with it than force it down the Path.”

“That _omega_ is a young boy, just as capable as becoming a Witcher as the rest of us. He’s survived the Trial of the Grasses—remarkably, if I might add.”

Rennes leaned into the arm of his chair and just huffed. “How did we come to acquire an omega, anyway?”

“We’ve never made a habit of checking,” Barmin interjected. Just a fact. Vesemir couldn’t quite figure where Barmin stood on this, though he hated to think that his own mentor would agree to such monstrosities. Unless it was just so, a fact. Pros outweighing cons.

“He was sold to us,” Vesemir said, folding his arms. “His father didn’t want him and assured us that he was _not_ an omega. We had no reason to strip a babe of its clothes in the cold air.” He still remembered the day, in fact. Watching Eskel ripped from his own mother’s arms, because she didn’t want to lose him. Her only son, if Vesemir recalled. But she had no voice in the matter, just an omega.

“So, tell me, exactly.” Rennes cleared his throat. “Is it really better to rip babes from their mothers’ arms like we have been? It is the same, whether a child of surprise or a sold, unwanted mutt. Should this child situation work out, imagine how many times we _won_ _’t_ have to do that. These children will never go farther than Kaer Morhen, not unless they become Witchers, themselves. Mother and child never separated. A near endless potential for progeny.”

Vesemir frowned.

“Forget about the boy, for a minute.” Rennes stood from his chair. “If it was just any other omega, one that you didn’t have some attachment to, would you really tell me that it wasn’t something that needed to be done? More boys die every day. What would you rather? That one omega does what it’s meant to do, or that Witchers die out entirely and the world is overrun with monsters?”

Impossibly, Vesemir’s frown darkened. He couldn’t argue the facts, because the facts were solid. It was just the humanity he would argue, but that wasn’t a strong enough stance to free Eskel from his new prison. “Then compromise with me,” Vesemir said.

“Interesting.” Rennes took his seat again, crossing his knees and folding his hands atop. “What do you suggest?”

“I know who the father is.” Had a good enough guess, anyway, that he couldn’t possibly be wrong. “If this can’t be negotiated out of, then at least allow them to see each other.”

Rennes shrugged. “I don’t see why that’s a bad idea.”

“They bonded.”

“Can this alpha control himself?” Rennes asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’d even be happy to let him father a few more children, until he sees the Trial of the Dreams. So long,” and he said this pointedly, “as he can control himself.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Vesemir replied, and could only hope he was right. Everyone who’d been there to see how Geralt reacted knew, and everyone who hadn’t been there heard about it from those who were. He’d reacted like any angry alpha would. Monstrous, uncontrollable. If Geralt did that again, he’d never see Eskel again.

They’d both been in this keep since they were children, Geralt and Eskel. A decade and some years down the road, Vesemir would have liked to see the day where he didn’t have to corral them like children, too. Always causing problems.

“Then you have your compromise,” Rennes said, off-handedly. “It’s all theoretical for the moment. The mages are guessing that his child isn’t going to be born until winter, at least. We have a long time to wait.”

“What will you do if the child isn’t viable?”

Rennes shrugged. “What can you do with a mutant?”

Kill it.

Their meeting fell back into its usual reins, after that. This wasn’t an argument that Vesemir could win; Rennes was set in his decision and had the ultimate control over it, anyway. Barmin hadn’t said anything, and he seemed rather indifferent to the whole thing. It wasn’t an unusual stance to take on the topic of omegas. Witchers who didn’t pay them for sex tended not to notice them at all, because they didn’t know much about them. There was no reason to know anything about them. There was hardly any reason to know about themselves, if they were an alpha.

It would have been better, at some point, if Witchers had just all stayed betas. That was an argument for later. So later, in fact, that the whole world would follow, and alphas and omegas would die out, forever. Too much strife. Too much control.

When their conversation came to a close, Vesemir was the first to leave. Three years ago, he’d made the mistake of not scaring Eskel enough to prevent him from doing something stupid. Today, he wouldn’t make that mistake. He would find Geralt and scare the ever-living shit out of him. That would be the only way to keep him in control. And if he could do that, he could see Eskel whenever he wanted in whatever context he wanted. If Rennes were willing Geralt even father more children until he couldn’t, he might even be agreeable to letting Geralt be in control of who had the same privilege.

If Geralt could control himself, and Vesemir didn’t know if he could. He was a sixteen-year-old boy high on hormones and a lifestyle designed to heighten everything. If he weren’t overwhelmed at the best of times, this would overwhelm him. This might be the thing to break him.

Already, Eskel had been locked away for the better half of a week. Vesemir wouldn’t wait any longer to discuss this with Geralt; the sooner they could come to an agreement, the sooner he could see Eskel. Things might take a turn for the better, then. Thankfully, Vesemir knew just where to find Geralt. It was a normal day, relatively cool with the sun high in the sky. He would be training out in the courtyard with the rest, honing skills that would help him tomorrow, but not today.

Vesemir found him quickly, and he didn’t bother to wait for his sparring to finish.

“Geralt!” Vesemir shouted for him. “I need to talk with you.”

Geralt stopped, sword right in mid-air to catch the strike of Gweld’s. They were training under Osbert’s supervision; he was just another instructor, one who dealt primarily with the boys who’d passed the Grasses. Varin trained the boys still in the bastion. Osbert looked as if he were about to question the sudden pull of a pupil, but Vesemir put that to rest.

“He’ll be back within the hour,” Vesemir said. “He can train into the dark, if he has to, but this is important.”

Osbert waved on. “He’s yours, then.”

Geralt sheathed his sword and quickly hurried across the field to where Vesemir was waiting. Vesemir didn’t bother to answer any of Geralt’s quickly sputtered questions, and instead just took him by the arm to drag him off. They didn’t stop until Vesemir found the first secluded quiet place that he could, and that was exactly where they’d have this conversation. Far enough away that they’d be alone, but not so far away that it was a trek to get to and from the final destination. If Vesemir did this right, they could see Eskel immediately.

“Are you the baby’s father?” Vesemir asked. “And do not lie to me, pup.”

Geralt stared at Vesemir for a long time, eyes shaking. Vesemir already knew the answer, which meant he would know if Geralt lied, but still. Geralt considered lying. He didn’t know if it was safe to tell the truth. That consideration came and died quickly. Vesemir had never done anything to betray Geralt’s trust; there was no reason not to give him the truth.

“Yes,” Geralt finally said. “We bonded, too.”

Vesemir sighed. “I hope you know how absolutely _stupid_ you two have been.” It wasn’t said kindly, either. They’d gotten themselves into this mess, and Vesemir was trying desperately to pick up the pieces. “Rennes will not agree to letting Eskel out of this, but _you_ can do something about it.”

Geralt’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“You can see him. I will take you to him right now, if you think you’re ready. You will not like what you see, but if you can keep yourself in control, you’ll have free access do him. Do you understand that?” Vesemir explained it just as Rennes had said it. If Eskel had a real child—not a monster—then they would expect him to have more. If Geralt could keep himself together long enough, think about the future long enough instead of the now, _he_ would father the next two, at least, until he went through the Dreams and was left sterile.

After that, it would be his choice who would father the next. He’d have the choice of any fertile alpha in the entire keep, and _no one_ outside of his choice would be allowed to see Eskel. Vesemir was sure he would get Rennes to agree to that, because it would keep things calm and in order. Rennes liked when things had order to them, were simple. The problem was, this compromise sounded ghastly, and it horrified Geralt right down to his boots. He didn’t _care_ how agreeable it might have sounded to Rennes.

“I don’t—I don’t _own_ him,” Geralt argued. “That doesn’t make me any better his— _handler_. He’s not a whore, Vesemir—”

“You watch your mouth, boy,” Vesemir spat back. “This is the best that you’re going to get. You have a partner, and you’re about to have a child—you don’t get to think about yourself right now, Geralt. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only way you get to see him. You can either squander this and never see him again, or you can bite your tongue and deal with it so that you’re there for him.”

Geralt frowned. “That’s horrible.”

“And it’s better than the alternative. That’s how life works, boy. Do you want to see him, or not?”

Geralt bit down on his tongue and nodded. He wanted to see Eskel. Vesemir was right; the alternative would be worse. As much as Geralt didn’t want to be in that position, it was likely the only position he’d get to be in. It was that, or never see Eskel. There were enough Witchers in this keep to ensure he wouldn’t. Plenty of them might also want a free fuck, especially come winter. If he could keep that in mind, maybe he could keep himself together. Even if this whole idea made him want to vomit; he’d still get to see Eskel.

Eskel had gotten a change of clothes the day after he’d been locked up in this room, because traditional clothes didn’t work well if he were going to be chained to the wall. So far, he’d been nothing but chained to the wall. He could up and walk around, all the way to the door and back, if he wanted, but he couldn’t get out. The chains were still there. Sometimes, it was easier to just sit in bed. He had nothing to do. The only way to even tell the passing of time was by the mages who came in and left.

They brought him food and water. They changed his chamber pot. They brought him a tub and lukewarm water to bathe in. It seemed to be the routine that would take place, and while it was comfortable enough, Eskel did it all with burning chains on his wrists.

On days like today, they came in, unlaced the shoulders of his shirt to pull it away, then pulled down his breeches. He sat on the side of the bed in nothing but his smalls, cold and uncomfortable. His breasts hung heavy away from his chest, and no matter how uncomfortable it was, they scolded him if he tried to cover himself. When he did, their job was difficult.

Part of him was glad for the care, because it meant things wouldn’t go wrong. He was essentially under a constant, all-day health check. The reason behind it soured the experience; they didn’t care about him. They hardly cared for the baby. All that mattered was his ability to _produce_ , and that the production was viable. So, they fussed, and they checked, and they fussed some more. There were a lot of hands closer to him than he wanted. The first time one of them had touched his bond mark, he’d snapped. Now, they touched it with gloves, and he only felt sick about it.

When his little check-over was finished, Eskel pulled his breeches back on, and they helped with the shirt. He couldn’t get the laces on his own. The shirt had barely been put on when there was knocking at the door; visitors always left a strange chill in the air. There was no way to know who they were. A few curious eyes had come, only to be chased away by the mages. Mostly, it was just more of the mages. Changing out shifts, bringing supplies. Whoever the visitor was this time was let right in.

When Eskel saw Geralt, his eyes lit up. He didn’t move from the bed, too many mages, but he looked at Geralt expectantly. Like this _meant_ something. Geralt looked back at him with much the same look on his face. It’d been too long since they’d seen each other.

“Leave us, for the moment,” Vesemir said. The mages all sort of looked at each other before deciding it wasn’t worth the argument. They stepped outside, and once they were gone, Vesemir let out a sigh.

“I’ll step outside,” he continued. “But only for a moment.” He looked to Geralt. “Visit, explain the situation, and make it quick.” Vesemir stepped out without another word.

The second the door closed, even as they both heard sudden passionate discussion from the other side, they rushed to each other. Eskel pushed himself off the bed, meeting Geralt nearly halfway, and they were in each other’s arms in the next second. Geralt wrapped one arm tightly around his waist, another around his shoulders. The perfect angle that he could press his nose into Eskel’s neck and _smell_ him and feel the scar at his nape. Geralt never wanted to let him go again, and by the way Eskel clung to him, he imagined Eskel felt the same.

“Geralt,” Eskel breathed. They pulled back enough that they could at least see each other. Eskel’s hands were on Geralt’s face, and Geralt was still ghosting over their bond mark.

“What have they done?” Geralt asked. It was hard to ignore the chains when they jangled, no matter how subtle Eskel’s movements were.

Eskel swallowed. “Keeping me under control. I’m amazed they haven’t muzzled me, yet. I bit one of them yesterday.”

Geralt smiled. He rested a hand along Eskel’s jaw, stroking over the crest of his cheek. “Have they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, right now,” Eskel said. “Mostly they just keep _checking_ on me. It’s strange.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Just a moment before Geralt couldn’t contain himself, anymore. He leaned down and pressed their lips together. Slowly, at first, until Eskel pressed back harder and tangled his fingers back through Geralt’s hair. Geralt’s tongue slid against his lips, and Eskel practically melted. It’d been so _long_. Their hips pressed together, chests flush. Geralt could feel everything. Everything new. He hadn’t seen Eskel in weeks, and in that time, his stomach had grown. So had his tits.

Geralt pulled back, then. They were still mostly together, breathing each other’s air and in each other’s space. He looked down. This shirt wasn’t designed to hide Eskel; it was designed to fit him.

“These are new,” Geralt muttered.

Eskel frowned. “They are not. Just bigger now.” He shrugged. He looked down as well, straight to the strange curve of his chest. One of the mages had tried to explain it. Female omegas already had breasts, but male omegas didn’t. His were growing in quickly, and once they had, the second step was preparation for milk. The third step was the actual milk. It was awkward to repeat, but Eskel told Geralt what he knew about it, now.

“Can I?” Geralt asked.

“You don’t have to ask to touch me.”

“I want to ask.” Because it may very well be the last choice Eskel got to make for himself.

They kissed, again, and Eskel gasped into it as Geralt palmed over his tits. He was gentle, cupping them in his hands and just _feeling_ the weight of them. They were small, cute. Fit right into the palms of Geralt’s hands as he pushed them up, pressed them together. He brushed his thumbs over Eskel’s nipples, through the fabric of his shirt, and the noise Eskel made into his mouth went straight to his cock. He didn’t know how long they had alone, but he wanted every precious second of it.

Eskel was the one who pushed Geralt’s hands down, right to the hem of his shirt so he could get beneath it and feel skin. Geralt’s hands were strangely warm, and Eskel arched into him. Pressing their hips together. He could feel Geralt’s cock. Let it spark his own arousal. Geralt’s fingers trailed up his stomach, over the ridges of his abdominals, his ribs. All the way back up to the swell of his breasts. Eskel’s lips parted open, moaning as Geralt felt along the sensitive skin.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to lose himself. He wanted this _now_. He grabbed the hem of Eskel’s shirt, pulling back so he could pull it off—and then he realized. Eskel was in chains.

“No,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “No, I can’t leave you here like this.”

“Geralt—” Eskel grabbed his wrists, but Geralt just pulled away and stepped back.

“I can’t leave you like this. I have to do something. Eskel, you don’t know what they’re going to do to you. I can’t—they want me to be a part of it! They want me to sit out there to pick and choose what alpha boy gets to come in here and _fuck you_ when I can’t get you pregnant anymore.”

Color drained right out of Eskel’s face. He knew, to some extent, what their plan was. But to ask Geralt to do that?

“And this is supposed to be some kind of _gift_ so I can still see you. Fuck it,” Geralt growled. “Fuck being a Witcher. If I can get you out of here, we’re going. We’ll hide somewhere, anywhere—somewhere in the south, maybe, but I can’t leave you here.”

Geralt knew he had no chance of breaking the chains, but he might have had a chance of getting the pegs out of the wall. The chains they could figure out later, find a locksmith to undo them. Something. Anything was better than leaving him here, now that he knew what Eskel’s fate would be. Geralt wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he just let it all happen.

He went straight for the wall, signing for Aard. He’d blow the place right up if he had to. But he wouldn’t. At the first sound of a blow, the doors flew open. Geralt was rushed in the next second, mages with their magic. More of them than there of him. Somebody grabbed Eskel, too, pulling him off to the side. Another mage, he thought, but he didn’t care. It sent him straight into another panic, kicking and screaming and struggling to get away. He had to help Geralt.

Why had Geralt done that!?

“Geralt!” Eskel shouted. “No—no, leave him alone! Let him go! Let _me_ go!”

Nobody came to Geralt’s aid. He was struck with spell after spell. His Quen shield only lasted so long, and it was only as strong as he was. Not a full Witcher, not as powerful as he needed to be to face a number of mages. He couldn’t count them. Could barely see beyond himself or hear beyond Eskel’s shouts. He tried to fight back, but magic for magic, his magic was weaker. He only had his sword, from sparring, but grabbing for it had given one of the mages all the space she needed to cast something stronger.

All it took was one blow to the back of Geralt’s head to send him down. He hit the stone floor hard, cracking his face against it. Eskel yelled for him, because he didn’t _move._ Was he even alive? Eskel didn’t know what he’d do if they’d just killed Geralt. What would any of them do? That was the most promising Witcher trainee they’d seen in decades—centuries, even. And he was lying still on the floor.

Vesemir just stood at the door, lifeless and disappointed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: beatings, blood/gore, discussion of a minor in sexual situations, childbirth

Geralt was unceremoniously thrown down to his knees. He barely managed to catch himself, as he was still weak from the blow. He’d woken back up to find himself being dragged down a hall, and now he was here. On his hands and knees, head bowed, before Rennes. Almost every person in the keep had heard the commotion; it hadn’t taken long for it to travel up to the top. Rennes had wanted to see what disrespectful mutt had caused such a problem, and Geralt was brought. No more secrets, now.

Rennes just stood there for a long time, hands folded behind his back and kept in perfect posture. His eyes flashed that Witcher gold, and Geralt couldn’t dare meet them. If he’d ever thought himself some hot-shot alpha, the belief was shot. He was nothing in comparison to this domineering aura, this energy that sucked up everything in the room. It demanded respect and attention. Geralt kept his head bowed and tried to just remember how to breathe; suddenly, there was no air.

“You must be Geralt, then,” Rennes said. “Heard so much about you. You’re supposed to be the best Witcher we’ve ever seen. I heard it only took you two days to pass through the Grasses.”

Geralt didn’t say anything.

“I hear you and that other alpha boy—Reven, was his name? Cause a lot of trouble. More than that, as now I hear that _you_ were the one who sniffed out our only omega, bonded it, and bred it.”

Geralt bit down on his tongue to keep from speaking.

“Has anyone explained to how hard it is to make new Witchers? Surely, you must have figured it out when over half of the boys your age _died_ during the Grasses. More boys die before they even make it that far. We are in a constant need for new trainees, and that omega of yours is the easiest way to get them. I thought I was being _kind_ , offering you a play in this. You take my offer, squander it, and cause more trouble than I think you’ve ever managed to cause.”

Geralt winced.

“I hope you know the offer is rescinded. In fact, I’m putting your omega under guard. If you even so much as go _near_ that thing, you will face a worse punishment than you’ll get for this. I’d threaten to kill the thing, but there is about to be a very, very full keep in a few months. I’m sure some of our Witchers would like a bit of comfort in the winter.”

Geralt’s head shot up. “What!? No—you can’t—!”

“I want him whipped!” Rennes barked. He dropped down to Geralt’s level and grabbed him by the jaw, wrenching him forward. “You will learn your place, pup, or you will not have a place at all. Am I understood?”

Geralt nodded. He might have even whimpered.

After that, he was escorted—dragged—out of the room. He would have walked, if he could, but he was still so weak. He didn’t know how to face what he was about to face, and he didn’t know how to face what he’d done. He’d seen those chains around Eskel’s wrists and lost himself, entirely. And he hated himself for it. If he’d just been able to somehow control himself, maybe none of this would have happened. But how was he supposed to control himself for the rest of his life?

The more he looked at it, the more this just seemed like the way it was going to be. Rennes had made that deal knowing that there was no way a sixteen-year-old, faced with something as dark as that, would have been able to control himself. They had never planned to just breed Eskel, but to use him as some sort of free comfort whore. The thought made Geralt sick, but his resolve was still burning in embers down in his gut. He’d find a way to protect Eskel, even if it killed him.

He was thrown to his knees in the yard, his hands grabbed. This was going to be a spectacle to show that even the best among them was not exempt from punishment. There was a pole before him, another one of the Witcher’s torture tools, and he was strapped to it. All he was given was a piece of leather to chew between his teeth so he wouldn’t bite off his tongue with the first sting came. He’d seen it all before. He’d watched Witchers be whipped. He’d had a good tanning himself, once or twice, but never like this.

It was one or two lashes with a thick leather strap. This was a real whip. Meant to dig into his skin and leave welts behind, leave scars if they cut deep enough. Geralt gripped his hands into fists, closed his eyes, and bit down on the leather in his mouth.

The first blow stung, and the second blow dulled the first only to come back with all the feeling of flesh burned alive. Geralt cried out, teeth gritted, and lurched forward. And he thought about Eskel. The third and the fourth blows came quickly. It took near ten of them before Geralt’s entire back had lost feeling. And he thought about Eskel. By the fifteenth strike, Geralt could feel the blood dripping down and soaking through the waistband of his breeches. And still, he just thought about Eskel.

Eskel would have to struggle through everything they threw at him, so Geralt would struggle through this. He’d take more whippings if that was his punishment. He’d take one-hundred lashings if it that was all it took to be able to see Eskel. To see him smile, just for a moment. The way his eyes shined when he looked at Geralt. Geralt could feel the tug of their bond between them, and it ached with each new strike of the whip. But he just thought about Eskel. How much he needed him.

Geralt didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He barely groaned through his teeth as the strikes came again and again. Thirty of them, in total, ripped right through his skin and left him shaking, trembling. The nights were getting colder with each passing day at Kaer Morhen. Geralt would be left right there, chained to that post, and face one on his own. That was the extent of the punishment, and he thought, if this was all he had to face, he might be able to face it again.

When the whippings were over, the spectators all returned to their daily tasks, training, and learning. Geralt was left there, still hunched over. He only shifted to get his knees farther apart and create a wide, firm base of his legs to relax down into. He relaxed the grip he’d had on the ties that kept him in place, and then he spat out the leather strip in his mouth. As far as he knew, he was alone. He could spend the next length of hours meditating, thinking about what he would do next.

The bonds would be easy enough to break out of, but Geralt had no intention of escaping his punishment. All he would think about would be how to get Eskel out of here. That was all that mattered. He had to have _something_ planned by the time the baby was born. Eskel’s fate began right after, and Geralt didn’t know how soon or how long that meant.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard boots in the grass. He’d assumed himself to be alone, but his senses were too weak with exhaustion to have looked out much farther than himself. He must have been thinking for no longer than ten minutes before he heard the boots. They came for him, and he expected the worse. Expected that it might have been Reven come to spit on him and laugh his final victory, but the boots just came to a stop out in front of him. If he’d had the strength to raise his head, he would have saw Vesemir.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t do that.” He heard Vesemir, then. “I don’t know what more I can do for you two if you both keep making stupid decisions.”

Geralt shook his head. “I tried,” he rasped. There was blood dripping from his lips, oozing from the welts in his back. He couldn’t speak much more, but he hoped Vesemir understood.

“They’re saying the babe will be born in winter. If you behave until then, maybe I can get you in there to see the birth of your child. But you have to work with me, Geralt. Your outbursts may very well make it worse for Eskel, and you have to think about that.” Vesemir squatted in front of Geralt, trying to meet his eyes. “You took on a damn lot of responsibility when you bonded with him, so own up to it.”

Geralt nearly winced at the harshness in Vesemir’s voice, but he understood. He had the whole rest of his life to care about nothing but himself and the coin he could make on the Path. He wasn’t a full Witcher yet. For now, all he could care about was this. Fixing it, if that were even possible.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Vesemir eventually sighed. “Stick to your training, Geralt. Do better than all of them and prove yourself. Pass your trials, _survive_ , and get out there on the Path. You might be able to do something, then.”

“I understand, Master,” Geralt muttered. It was all he could manage to say. Vesemir was asking him to wait four years, at the very earliest. And that was suggesting he could do something the exact moment that he was sent out on the Path. It was unlikely. He could only pray it didn’t take much time, after that. He worried what longer meant for Eskel. There would come a point where the only option left would be to kill him. It would be kinder.

After Geralt’s outburst, Eskel’s chains were tightened. He didn’t have free reign of the room, anymore, and no farther could he go than the chamber pot—which, they’d had to move. With his freedom further restricted, Eskel didn’t do much more than sit in bed. What he would have given for at least a book to sit and re-read for days and weeks. It might have better passed the time than sitting there, in bed, counting the blocks of stone that built the wall.

For the entire day, he was ignored. The mages didn’t return, not after they’d tightened his restraints. He didn’t eat until the following morning, and by then his stomach was making awful pitched noises. He was near starving; the bigger the swell of his stomach got, the hungrier he was. He could eat enough for three, at the rate he was going, and the mages blamed it on the mutagens. They’d never seen them in fetuses, before, and since the purpose of this was practical study, Eskel was fed as much as he could stomach.

He was allowed to eat his meal in peace, and he scarfed them down like a man left to starve. It was all perfectly hearty things, too. No more mushrooms, herbs, and mosses. He was sure none of this food was even laced with anything, nor made with it. It was the most fulfilling meal he’d had in a long time, as it warmed him straight to the bone. Left him stuffed and happy. He eventually just left the empty plate on the nightstand and relaxed back into the pillows. He was alone for not a minute longer.

The door opened without preamble, because it never did. He had no privacy; they’d walked in on him asleep, and they’d walked in on him reliving himself. He was shocked to see who came in, though. Almost ashamed that she was here to see this. He looked pathetic, no matter how well taken care of he was, so far.

Mariette smiled. “I almost didn’t want to believe what they told me.” She still sounded as kind as she ever did.

Eskel wrapped his arms around his stomach and curled in on himself.

“Oh, Eskel,” she sighed. “You should have told me. I—well. I don’t know what I could have done.”

Eskel shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to her. All he was glad for was that she didn’t look at him any different than she ever had.

“I’m supposed to check on you. Your health and the health of the child.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Of everything, the last thing he wanted was to strip down to his smalls in front of Mariette. “They just fed me. I’ve had water. Nothing’s changed.”

She believed him; he knew she believed him because, as she approached, all she did was sit down at the side of the bed. Her back was to him before he decided that he might move, then scooted to the edge of the bed to sit beside her. From the pouch on her hip, Mariette pulled out a small vial of oil what smelled of berries. Without a word, she took each of Eskel’s wrists in hand and dabbed the oil right against the crease with the cuffs. Instantly, the burn soothed.

“There are few of us who disagree with this treatment,” she explained. “Unfortunately, I’m sure you realize we have little sway.”

“I’ve realized,” Eskel said. “I keep hearing the same thing, and it’s all essentially just _get over it_. I know what they’re going to do with me. I’d like to not spend the rest of my—” he swallowed around the word “—pregnancy thinking about it.”

“Of course. I’ll report you’re in perfect health, then. Would you like anything?”

“A book. Anything.”

Mariette nodded and bid Eskel a fast farewell. She was gone just about as quickly as she came, and Eskel didn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly proper company, given the situation. He was bigger and angry. Food did little to sate him after it’d all settled. Boredom was getting to him. Loneliness almost proved a sharper sword. The only people he saw were the mages, who were unkind and clinical.

Thankfully, Mariette returned quickly. She’d just gone to get what Eskel asked for, and while it wasn’t anything impressive, it was a book about herbs and flowers. It might prove of some use. It was good information for a Witcher to know—just in case.

“The future can always change,” she said, but Eskel didn’t believe her.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the book. He’d already resigned himself to a future as Kaer Morhen’s personal breeding cocksleeve.

After a night and a day, Geralt was released from his bindings and offered one evening to clean himself up. It started with a bath, which was more painful than not, then ended in sitting in the barracks hunched over his own knees while Gweld knelt behind him with salve for his wounds. It did not go unnoticed that they were sitting strictly on Eskel’s bed, for what little he’d ever managed to sleep there. He would never sleep here again, and even so, his scent still lingered. Orange blossom, leather, and pine. Just the slightest hint of Geralt.

Geralt hissed as the salve hit his back, even when it started to cool and to soothe. His wounds were still just about as fresh as they could have been. His stint in the cold night hadn’t done much good; he hadn’t gotten any sleep, either. Too busy thinking that the only way out of here was _time_ and too busy being afraid that they didn’t have enough of that to work.

“What do you do know?” Gweld asked, another strip of salve on his back. The bleeding had stopped in the cold, and all been washed away in the bath. Geralt’s back was just open wounds and rawness, now.

“Nothing,” Geralt said. His voice was full of resignation. “I have to train, pass the rest of the trials, and figure something out then.”

Gweld’s hand stilled on Geralt’s back. “That—are you sure?”

“What else can I do? The more I bother with it now, the worse I make things for him.”

Gweld winced, chewing on his bottom lip and applying more salve. “I just don’t care for it. Reven’s been— _talking._ _”_ He tried to say it softly, but the way Geralt’s shoulders flexed and tensed meant that he heard it, and he was angry about it.

“You don’t want to know,” Gweld continued.

“Tell me, anyway.”

“They told us. About Eskel, I mean. That he wasn’t going to be training with us anymore.” Osbert had been the one to tell them in the midst of sword training, as if it was just some passing piece of information they needed to be aware of. There had been no tone to his voice when he spoke. He just said it. Eskel won’t be training anymore. “But then,” Gweld continued, “he looked at Gardis and me to basically say we might as well just consider him dead. _We_ would never see him again.”

Geralt gripped his hands into fists.

“Because, you know.” Gweld shrugged. “They don’t want betas out of him. Not that I would, anyway. That’s just—” Gweld cleared his throat. “This is awful to talk about.”

“How do you think I feel?” Geralt nearly growled. “I got him into this mess.”

“Right, because you’re so fucking perfect you could see the future.” Gweld rolled his eyes. “Beat yourself up somewhere else. Think they did a good job of beating you up for you, but fuck, Geralt. You don’t get to pretend you did this to him.”

“If we’d been more careful—”

“Did you know?” Gweld challenged. The next bout of salve was slapped onto his back instead of gently placed. “Did you know that one heat was gonna get him pregnant?”

“No—”

“Did you know what they’d do to him if they found out about it?”

“No—”

“So, how the fuck is it your fault? Gods, Geralt. You’re a lot of fucking things, but a martyr? When the fuck did that start? Wallowing in your own self-blame isn’t going to help him. Not going to help _you_ either.”

Gweld finished applying the salve and couldn’t get off the bed fast enough. He had to wipe his hands of the salve and of Geralt. For an instant, Geralt felt anger flare up, but it died out just as quickly.

“Maybe it’s different for you,” Gweld said, quieter, “because you’ve got that bond going on. But you’re not the only one who _lost_ something. They told us to just pretend he was dead, Geralt. Did they tell you that?”

Geralt just shook his head. Gweld didn’t need to hear the whole of it. If Geralt had his way, he would tell nobody for the rest of his years that they’d tried to make him apart of this awful plot. That he’d nearly done it but hadn’t been able to hold himself together long enough to manage. He really didn’t know what outcome was worse, either, but Gweld was right. It wasn’t his fault. This would have happened, regardless. Too high of expectations and not enough time to get it right. Never enough time.

“Anyway,” Gweld just kept talking. Easier to fill the silence with talking. “You get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow to knock Reven’s teeth out. Been talking about how he’s first in line to fuck your boy after the baby’s born.”

Geralt gritted down his teeth.

“Reven’s a monster,” Gweld muttered. “The only saving grace we’ll have is that they keep him away from your fucking kid.” Gweld excused himself, after that. There was still food in the mess hall, and he wanted to eat before crawling into bed.

Geralt felt sick. Gweld’s implications were about to have him vomiting right onto the floor, but he swallowed the bile back down and laid on his side. They’d been telling him for years that he was the best of them, but he’d never let it go to his head because he didn’t believe it. He always thought Eskel was the best of them. He was the golden child: always on time, always attentive, and always working as hard as he could. He’d even done it all pregnant. Pregnant and terrified.

It didn’t matter how good Eskel had been. It didn’t matter how many times he’d landed Geralt on his ass during training, or how many time he did something faster, _better_. It hadn’t been enough; he hadn’t been able to defend himself. They were just children. They were sixteen years old and still learning. If Eskel, being the best of them, couldn’t have protected himself, then Geralt had no hope of doing it. Not in the way he was now. His only hope was to just get better. Better than all of them.

So, that’s what Geralt did. He trained harder than he ever had before. When he met swords with Reven, he didn’t give into the posturing and the pissing. He just sparred. And he won. He sparred with all of them, with Gweld and with Gardis, and he won. He still couldn’t beat their instructors, but he was sixteen. He would get _better_ , especially as he underwent more training. Scarcely was there a pupil who did not outshine the master. If Geralt were to survive the Path, he could _be_ a master, one day. He just had to train harder.

Soon enough, he began to improve in archery. They trained with bows more often than not, but Geralt found that he preferred the crossbow. They were slower to load, but he just practiced. If he just practiced more, it wouldn’t be long until he could load a crossbow as fast as he could ready a bow. It was a powerful weapon. It would do damage from a distance and up close.

When they sat down for reading and memorizing, Geralt took more notes than he ever had before. He re-took notes. Took notes again and again on the same subject until he could close his eyes and recite the passage from memory. He wanted to be able to recite the passages from more than memory, but from just knowledge. It was required, of course, to survive. But if he could do it _now_. It was just one step to being better. To being stronger, smarter, and faster.

He never trained alone. When he trained in their downtime, he dragged Gweld or Gardis along with him. When they weren’t available, he tried Vesemir. Vesemir was always impressed, and always tried to clear away time to help. He would stand at the side of the pendulum and bark order, bark corrections. Left foot down. Strike from the wrist. Straighten yourself. Wider stance. It was get better or _die_ , and Geralt was dead set on the former. If he were ever going to get Eskel out of here, he’d have to train hard enough for the both of them.

Geralt only ate what he needed. He only slept as much as was required. This was the new routine he was willing to keep, willing to struggle through because it was the only way to progress. He didn’t care how much his muscles ached, nor did he care about the scars and the wounds that came and healed. It would be worth it.

The first day he took a break was after the pass had snowed over amid the final month of the year. All of the Witchers had returned to Kaer Morhen, Geralt hadn’t seen Eskel since September, and it was time for a feast. Geralt awoke early enough that he could still get an hour of _something_ in. It wasn’t exactly sword swinging but learning the monsters and how to face them was just as important. If he couldn’t survive out on the Path, he wouldn’t survive to be of any help.

Eventually, they were called in to help prepare the feast. It was mostly for the bastion boys to help, of which there were quite a handful, but a few sets of extra hands never hurt anyone. This time, Geralt and Gardis were set off to make bread on their own. They were told how to do it, how many loaves to make, and not to let it rest for too long. While it was resting, they would get other tasks. For the moment, it was just mixing flour, water, and yeast.

“Never thought winter would actually get here.” Gardis broke the silence, first. Geralt was kneading while Gardis mulled over what they could add to the bread to make it better than just bread. Bread was boring.

“Well, it’s here. Comes ever year,” Geralt huffed.

“This one’s a bit special, isn’t it?” It wasn’t exactly the nicest of subjects, but it might as well be breached. There was nothing else to talk about, unless they wanted to discuss the difference in texture between soft snow and ice snow.

Geralt stilled for a moment, frowning, then went back to kneading the bread together. He stopped only to sprinkle more flour down on the table and roll up a sleeve that was falling. His response was a bit strange, hesitant and stuttered. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t exactly something Geralt wanted to have as an idle conversation. Gardis pressed, anyway. Concerned.

“They’re going to let you see your own kid, aren’t they?”

Geralt shrugged. “So far, I’ve been told to stay the fuck out of it. Vesemir has been trying to pull strings. Told me that even though _Eskel_ wants me there, they’re still—well.” Geralt sighed and just squeezed the bread dough between his fingers. “I don’t think I get to see the kid, no.”

Gardis grimaced, looking down at the table. He didn’t know what to say to that. In his lifetime, he’d never have a child. He couldn’t understand whatever turmoil Geralt was going through, right now, but he could at least _try_. Already, Geralt had been barred from seeing Eskel. The room he was in was kept under guard, and the key seemed to constantly be changing hands. There might have even been several keys to keep things interesting.

“Do you want a boy or a girl?” Gardis asked.

Geralt was suddenly kneading the bread harder. He added more flour and a bit of olive oil. “Boy would be better,” he muttered. “An alpha boy.” He was too afraid that anything else was going to get Eskel punished, as if it were his _choice_ what sort of child he would have. He’d heard stories from the Witchers who’d heard stories in their travels. Plenty of noble omegas were killed for not gifting the proper child. Eskel was no noble, but the idea was practically the same.

“That’s not what I asked. What do you _want_?”

Geralt stilled, then. He sighed and let his eyes close. He’d imagined this more times than was healthy. He had an image in his mind of a small cottage nestled in the woods near a running stream. It would be big enough for a waterwheel, so they could grind their own grains and make bread together. He was still a Witcher, so he was gone more often than not, but he could see the image of when he would come home. Eskel would meet him at the door, smiling. Geralt loved Eskel’s smile. He’d step out of the front door to the little cottage, holding their child up in his arms.

If anyone had asked him a year ago if he wanted children, he would have said no. The lifestyle he was going to live wasn’t meant for children, and the idea of having something so helpless relying on him was nothing short of frightening. He liked when those around him could handle themselves. Helping was of no issue, but the idea of being solely responsible for the well-being of something was nearly too much. His friends could rely on him, but they’d never had to do so entirely. Even Eskel could take care of himself.

A child was a different story altogether. Geralt hadn’t wanted children, because no Witcher did. They weren’t supposed to have children, either. That had all changed the moment he’d met with Eskel in that room and seen him, though. Smelled it on him. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to meet his child, hold them. Take _care_ of them. He wanted to take care of Eskel, too. But every passing day was causing that image in his mind to fade. No cottage. No small farm. No waterwheel.

Eskel would have greeted him at the door, holding their child up in his arms. A little girl with wavy brown hair and sparkling eyes, wearing a white-linen dress. She was barefoot, smiling, and struggling to get down out of Eskel’s arms. He’d let her go, because she’d learned how to walk two summers ago, and how to _run_ just recently. She would dash across the meadow, unafraid of what Geralt posed as a Witcher, and jump into his arms.

“A girl,” Geralt finally said. “I think a girl would be nice. I don’t care about the rest.”

Gardis smiled. “A girl would be nice. Have I earned the honor of being Uncle Gardis?”

Geralt laughed under his breath. “Think so, yeah.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to find the only baby in Kaer Morhen, anyway. Even if you can’t be there, you could still see it, right? Who wants to watch birth, anyway. I hear it’s gross.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. More flour. This pad of dough was almost done, and then he’d pass it off to Gardis who would then set it up for rising. They’d finished five loaves, counting this one. Still work to be done.

“He’s gonna pop any day now,” Gardis mumbled. He’d been told, too, to just stop thinking of Eskel. He wouldn’t see him again. He might not ever get to see the baby, either, not unless a very specific set of circumstances took place and he hadn’t died before then. “You’re gonna be a father.”

Geralt’s eyes widened ever-slightly. He didn’t look up as he plopped the dough across the table. He hadn’t thought about it exactly like that, before. Hadn’t considered himself a _father_. But that’s exactly what he would be. A father. A father without a single right to his child. A father who couldn’t raise his child, either. Geralt settled back down into a routine—mixing the dough, kneading the dough, and making proper idle conversation with Gardis. No more talking about the child he couldn’t have and the father he couldn’t be.

The feast was boring and quiet without Eskel. Geralt sat in a corner, alone, and ate more than he should have. He washed it all down with a pint of ale, and another to match.

December passed with no news. Geralt passed Eskel’s prison as often as he could find an excuse to, just to stare at the door. He thought if he might be able to just stand there long enough, he could smell something. See something. Mages came and went more frequently, now, but the doors were never open long enough for Geralt to see inside. He wouldn’t know anything until they let him know. And they wouldn’t.

It was sometime in the early morning on a fateful twenty-second of January when Eskel woke up to a wet and viscous mess between his thighs. The pain started almost immediately after. It was intense; probably the worst thing he’d ever felt in his life. His groaning alerted the guards outside of the room, and the rest happened in time. The mages were summoned, and the whole keep knew what was happening within the hour. The first ever Witcher child was going to be born, soon.

The moment Geralt heard, he all but threw his sword to the grass. Vesemir had tried, relentlessly, for months, with no avail. Geralt was not going to be there to see the birth of his child, but he would be damned if he didn’t try. In the moment, he didn’t care what his punishment might be or what training he would miss. He’d make it up, later. He would train like a hell-bent man for years to come, but he would do it after he _tried_. It was like the whole keep suddenly stank of birth, and within that scent, Geralt found Eskel. Knew that he needed him.

Nobody could grab him fast enough before he was running. He knew the way through the keep to the room turned prison, and he ran there on quick feet. Faster than he ran for anything, because everything in training required the proper breathing, required him not to tire himself too fast. This just required speed, panic. His _child._ He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.

_You_ _’re gonna be a father_. Gardis’ line rang in his mind.

Eskel’s chains were tightened, and not for any cruelty, but simply because they had to be. He lurched forward when the pain hit again. The jolts came so few and far between, but they burned his skin alive straight from the inside, the base of his spine. He cried out, thankful for the chains for one, single moment, because they were all that kept him in the bed. Everything hurt. He ached from his shoulders to his toes, and nothing the mages could do would solve it.

He was given herbs, and the pain still struck when it stuck and left him gasping. He gripped his palms around the chains and suffered the burn they provided if only to ground himself for a moment. He couldn’t think straight. Could hardly see straight. He could barely hear through the ringing in his ears.

“There could still be hours,” one of the mages said. “Best thing to do is to try and shut him up.”

Another one shook her head, an older one. “Haven’t seen too many childbirths, have you?”

Eskel threw his head back into the pillows and cried out again, back arching as the next jolt of pain hit him.

“Is it usually so painful so quickly?”

A shrug, the shake of a head. “He’s having a mutant. No one has ever seen this before. No one has ever endured it.”

Eskel gripped his hands into the chains and nearly screamed. He could hear their panicking, the shout of commands here and there. Warm water. Rags. More restraints. Eskel’s breeches were removed despite his kicking and his protesting. His smalls went next.

_No one has ever endured it_. He’d be the first, and he swore it would kill him.

Geralt dashed right up to the great crowd of people all there to _assist_ , to watch like it was some sort of entertaining freak show. He couldn’t see past them, and if he could, the door was closed. It didn’t matter. It only opened briefly as people came and went, jugs and buckets in their hands. Vials. Supplies. Things to help. Geralt could feel his heart beating in his chest. He started to move closer; maybe there wasn’t a soul who knew he wasn’t allowed to be here.

But that was a stupid assumption. Even if the only thought was that he was clearly a trainee, supposed to be training, everyone in the keep knew exactly who he was. Geralt, the father of the mutant. The idiot who’d gone and bonded the only omega in Kaer Morhen. He was supposed to be training. Supposed to be helping stock the stores. Supposed to be doing anything else than trying to get into a room he hadn’t seen the inside of for months.

Two older Witchers grabbed him by the arms, dragging him back. They picked him right out of the snow to move him, then threw him down to the ground. Despite his fighting, his kicking, he landed right on his ass in a half-frozen pile of snow.

“ _Please_ ,” Geralt strained. He didn’t even have to specify; everyone knew what he wanted. If they didn’t know by experience, they could tell from his scent alone. Something putrid. A strange and desperate scent for an alpha to have, but the exact sort one might have when taken from their omega in such a situation.

“Let me deal with this.” Vesemir’s voice rang through, and he pushed past the two Witchers. “Get on with yourselves, go.”

They listened. They didn’t go far, just back down to the prison-room’s door. They must have been assigned to guarding the room. They might have keys. Geralt made sure to know their faces before he looked at Vesemir.

“I have to see him,” Geralt said, jumping up to his feet.

“You’re supposed to be—”

“I know!” Geralt interrupted. “I know what I’m supposed to be doing! I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’ll run the Killer until I pass out, whip me again, take my bed from me— _anything_ , Master! I have to see him. _Please_.”

Vesemir blinked, a bit taken a back. Geralt had his outbursts. Most children did. In comparison to the lifetime of a Witcher, Geralt might as well be an infant. This outburst was different, though. This one was desperate, pleading.

“That’s _my_ child,” Geralt rasped, his voice half-broken. “Eskel— _please_ , Master.”

Vesemir sighed. “You can’t go in there. The only people allowed are those necessary for the process, and as far as anyone in this keep is concern, you are the opposite of necessary. But—” Vesemir continued before Geralt’s heart could practically collapse. “If you’re willing to make it up, then you can wait outside the door. I make no promises. You may not even get to see your child.”

Geralt nodded. Anything was better than being sent away.

As Vesemir went to explain the meager change in situation, Geralt just stood there in the snow. For the first time since that morning, he was cold. He wished he would have dressed better, but no one could have foreseen this. He didn’t dare leave, either. He would sit there in the cold until his child would born just for the chance to hear it cry. He’d already found the resolve to do it, chilled air aside.

He hurried over to the door when Vesemir gestured to him. Once again, he was told he could not go in, and he could not interfere with anything. The moment he did, he wouldn’t like the consequences. That was fine, agreeable. Geralt had no intention of doing anything to jeopardize this. Eskel didn’t need that. He only hoped that maybe, against the odds, Eskel might even know that he was here. He sat down against the stone wall, right by the door, and rested his head against the back. He focused. Tried to listen. What he heard struck deep, but he bore it.

Eskel shouted again, arching back into the pillows, the mattress. He was sweating. It felt, already, as if a year had passed. It been no more than a few hours, and still, they were saying to wait. It wasn’t _time_. He was just going to lay here in pain until whatever mysterious time finally arrived. In utter, complete agony. The mages had already determined that the agony wasn’t normal, but nothing about it was normal. There was no break in the pain, and there was nothing to be done.

The herbs were hardly helping. Mariette was there, thankfully, but no amount of kind words and shushing were going to make the pain stop. It wracked through his entire body in waves, only seconds to rest before they came again. He didn’t care why it was happening, which was all the mages seemed to bother about; he just wanted it to stop.

“Geralt—” Eskel gasped. “Where’s Geralt? Can’t he—” he broke off in a loud groan. “Can’t he be here?”

Mariette shook her head. “Nobody’s coming in, Eskel.”

Eskel shook his head. “But _Geralt_ —”

She shook her head, again. Eskel lolled his head to the other side, panting hard and closing his eyes. He wanted Geralt. He could hardly remember what Geralt smelled like, anymore, but that scent would calm him down. Geralt could sit close to him, rub his fingertips into their bond on the back of Eskel’s neck. Eskel knew that would make everything better. Might even make it go away. They wouldn’t allow it.

Eskel writhed there in abject misery for hours. He couldn’t keep any food down. Water was a struggle all its own, but they made him drink it. He swallowed to the point where swallowing hurt. The pain radiated up his spine, down his legs. He was left trembling, withered under the amount of pain. Eventually, his strength was sapped, and all he could do was lay there and feel it.

Mariette held his hand while his legs were shifted for him. Bent at the knee, spread apart. It was inspection after inspection each time his pain changed, got worse or less or worse again. Though he felt a bit on display, he was far too exhausted to feel any shame. Better to just let it all happen, because it was happening. He was going to have a baby.

The pain lasted for hours more in varying waves of intensity. Mages came and went. Girls from the kitchen brought supplies, helped where they could. The faces were constantly changing as one set of people got tired and it was time for the second set to come in. Eskel was in labor, edging on eighteen hours of it—straight, without a single moment reprieve. Of the few in the keep with experience, they knew this wasn’t entire normal. They blame it on the nature of the babe and took notes.

Evening was well-established when something changed. There was a sudden jolt, so much unlike the others that it nearly had Eskel in tears. He jolted up, instincts taking over, and everyone in the room knew exactly what it meant. The panic rose up once again.

The baby was coming.

Geralt could smell the change from outside. He curled his arms around his knees and gripped his hands into fists. He’d been out here since the moment Vesemir said he could be. All he’d eaten and drank was what Gweld had time to bring him between his own schedule, and it wasn’t much. Geralt hadn’t been hungry. Even now, he wasn’t hungry. His mind was too full, senses too overwhelmed. He squeezed his fists harder and leaned his head back into the stone, listening, smelling, _feeling_.

“Push, Eskel, _push_ ,” Mariette urged. Geralt could hear her. Could hear Eskel’s grunts, the pain he was in. Each push had him crying out.

Eskel felt rightly like he was being ripped apart. He pushed when Mariette told him to, relaxed when she eased him back, but there came no reprieve. Just constant pain. He was exhausted and covered in sweat, hoping for it all to just be _done_. But he had to keep going. Had to push through, had to just _push_. The pain shocked right through his system, and he vaguely thought that the Trial of the Grasses might have been preferable to this. He’d suffer through it ten times over and still not feel like _this_.

All of it mattered at the end of the pain. All of it came to fruition, right there, and Eskel nearly laughed when he heard it. A baby’s cry. Taken with exhaustion, Eskel finally just collapsed into the pillows. He did laugh, then. He could hear the baby crying, though he could scarcely muster up the strength to look down. The babe was taken up in arms while a woman cut the umbilical cord. _This_ baby was checked.

“You have a son,” someone told him. He couldn’t open his eyes, anymore. “Either an alpha or a beta; only time will tell.”

“Emiel,” Eskel gasped out. He’d been thinking about it. He had nothing else to do but read his book on flowers and think of names. He could only hope that they would keep that name. He could only hope that Geralt would like it, too.

“Emiel,” the same voice repeated. “We’ll get you both cleaned up, and then bring him back for his first feeding, alright?”

Eskel nodded, hurriedly. He was suddenly itching, fingers twitching. He wanted to _hold_ Emiel and shush the cries right out of him, but that wasn’t an option. He didn’t get a choice in what happened. He hardly even knew if he’d get to hold Emiel, at all. Not once they took him away, again. And he knew they would.

For the moment, he just let himself relax. Things weren’t quite over for him. Mariette was trying to explain it to him, but he wasn’t listening. Everything felt soft, for a change. He might have even admitted that he felt good.

Geralt had nearly fallen asleep outside, but he jolted right up to his feet when the door opened. It closed, immediately, but he saw the woman who stepped out and what she had. She didn’t stop to look at him, and she certainly wouldn’t have stopped to _show_ him. She was more focused on the bundle in her arms. And Geralt could see it. The very top of the baby’s head. He couldn’t discern between a boy or a girl, but he could see that tuft of brown hair.

He nearly stumbled back against the wall. The amount of feeling just overwhelmed him as the smell passed. So distinctly _him_ and so distinctly Eskel. That was their child. All he wished for then was to be able to burst through those doors and take Eskel into his arms to tell him how _proud_ he was. What a good job he’d done. How wonderful it all was, how perfect. But none of that was possible. Now that the baby was born, Geralt was ushered away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: breast feeding, milking, discussion of a minor in sexual situations

Evening had slowly turned to night, and though it was late, Eskel still was not afforded a chance to sleep. His only rest was the time it took for Emiel to be brought back to him, properly cleaned. The woman who’d taken him approached the side of Eskel’s bed, and that was the cue for the room to empty. This was a more private moment, and while it was not given out of kindness, it was at least given. The room emptied because everyone had things they needed to do; there was no purpose to stand around and watch a new mother nurse.

“Do you have a preference?” The woman asked. She sat down at the edge of the bed but did not hand the babe over.

“Preference?” Eskel looked at her. His voice was heavy with overwhelming exhaustion and grogginess.

“Which breast?” She said, raising an eyebrow. Eskel flushed, instantly, shaking his head.

Really, he didn’t think it mattered. He’d been trying to think as little about it as possible, especially over the last month or so, when he’d started _leaking_. It’d been dreadfully embarrassing, but this wasn’t supposed to be embarrassing. This was supposed to be _beautiful_. He was doing what mothers did: providing for his baby. Besides, he couldn’t have Emiel in his arms soon enough. Eskel sat up a bit straighter so he could accept the bundle being handed to him.

Then, he just breathed. The chains didn’t matter, neither did the fact that he hadn’t had a proper bath. After Emiel had been taken away, Eskel had to wait to birth the rest of it, and it’d left him feeling disgusting. There hadn’t been time for a bath, but he didn’t care. Emiel was wrapped up tight and warmth, happy and calm. He was awake, too, blinking his little eyelids up at Eskel. His eyes were blue, the very same blue that Eskel’s had been before he underwent the Trial of the Grasses.

“He’s beautiful,” Eskel muttered, but his only companion didn’t say anything. All she did was move; Eskel was holding Emiel with head towards his left shoulder, so that was the side of the shirt that needed to go. She walked around the bed and didn’t bother to sit again, just tugged at the laces of his shirt.

She tucked the shirt down, and then helped get Emiel situated. Emiel knew exactly what to do, because he was a baby and hungry. Eskel had a bit more of a challenge in getting positioned and comfortable, but he managed with some help. He couldn’t even be bothered to think about how strange it was, to have this woman touching him so personally. Soon, he would be able to do it on his own. He just had to learn.

He jolted when Emiel latched on. Immediately, he was overwhelmed. The feeling was strange enough on its own, but there was this dawning understanding that this was his _son_. Newborn, helpless. This was Emiel’s first meal. He was learning just as much as Eskel was, though he was certainly learning faster. He wriggled in his little bundle of blankets and shifted, and it all just felt _strange_. He felt a sudden pin-like pressure, and then sudden, Emiel was settling. Suckling properly, then.

“It helps sometimes if you massage,” the woman interjected, and she demonstrated by pressing into her own chest. “If he’s too slow for you.”

Eskel shook his head. “This is—fine,” he said, unsure of what else made any sense. “Have you…?” The question was left unsaid.

“Given birth myself?” She snorted. “No, but I was around plenty of whores who did. Helps to know a few things. Makes it easier, and believe me,” she stood up, “you’re going to want easy. You’ll want to alternate each time you nurse, yeah? And that—” she said, pointing to the sudden wet spot in Eskel’s shirt where his right breast leaked its own watery milk, “—is normal.”

Eskel grimaced. “How long do they eat like this?”

“In general?” She asked. When Eskel nodded, she continued. “Could be up to a year, sometimes longer. For you?” She folded her arms. “I give it a week, tops.”

Eskel’s heart dropped.

“They’ll want you _open for business_ , so to say, as soon as possible. Once they figure out how to feed that thing without _you_ , I’m sure that’s the end of it. Probably the last time you’ll ever nurse.” Then, she laughed. “Not like your body will know that. I don’t know what they intend to feed these things, so they may very well just start milking you. Won’t that be fun?”

The color drained from Eskel’s face, and he looked back to Emiel instead of the woman. She was cynical. While not intentionally mean, she was crude about it. Every word out of her mouth was the truth, and it was probably best not to beat around the bush. Eskel had let himself get too wrapped up in the joy. Really, she was doing him a service by reminding him that this was temporary. He shouldn’t let himself get attached—but how could he not?

Emiel already looked so much like _him_ , but he had Geralt’s nose. His tuft of brown hair was wavy, almost curly. Slightly tanned skin. Bright blue eyes. How could Eskel not get attached? Emiel was beautiful. He was small. Small in comparison, anyway, to things that Eskel had ever held. He’d heard the mages saying that Emiel was larger than a normal baby should be.

“Where will he sleep?” Eskel asked.

“Probably the laboratory. Nobody knows if he’s a flesh-eating mutated monster, yet. And if he’s not, I’m sure they want to know what the mutagens did to a fetus.”

“They’ll…experiment on him?”

The woman nodded. “Of course, they will. And once they determine the result,” she sighed out. “Well, I did say I’d been around _whores_ before, didn’t I? You just don’t get paid.”

Eskel swallowed hard. He wouldn’t look at the woman, not with the way she was talking. Instead, he stroked the back of his index finger along Emiel’s cheek. Emiel crooned against him, still suckling. Still hungry. Eskel was starting to feel hungry, himself, and a bit thirsty. The exhaustion was almost forgotten, like he might just stay up the rest of the night. He had plenty of things to keep him awake. Plenty of thoughts were already starting to swirl in his head about what awaited him after this. He foresaw it being no kinder than what he’d already seen. Feared it would be worse.

“Will—will the father get to see him?”

The woman snorted. “You mean Geralt? We all know who knocked you up. But, to answer your question, _no_. He won’t. The less people interact with that baby, the better. He’s being studied. Besides,” she waved her hand in the air, “everyone is rightfully concerned that your little alpha will try to run off with him.”

To that, Eskel said nothing. It hurt to know Geralt wouldn’t get to see their son. Would Geralt even know they had a son? What about his name? Maybe none of it really mattered; Geralt surely knew they had a child, by now. That might have been enough. And the woman was right, anyway. Eskel needed her to be right. He needed to believe that, at first chance, Geralt would take their son and run away. It might be nice to accompany them both on that escape, but Eskel knew he’d be harder to rescue. He was practically resigned to it.

When Emiel was finally full, the woman took him right back. Eskel flitted with his own shirt trying to get it laced back up. That had the woman scoffing, as if he might as well not even bother with it. It wouldn’t be long until he was naked again, anyway. If not for the bath, then for the inevitability when clothing him just became a hassle. Eskel wanted to be angry, but he was exhausted. He was ready for the bath he was about to get, and then he was ready to sleep for the next day.

“We’ll take care of him,” the woman said, gesturing to Emiel. “But you get to feed him until they can figure something else out. As I said, anyway.”

Eskel didn’t say anything. He just slumped.

She left, and others replaced her. Eskel’s bonds were loosened enough to get him out of bed, and then he was stripped of his clothes. The bed was stripped, too, as it was covered in blood and fluids. It would be changed before his bath was done, because he needed to be _thoroughly_ cleaned, from head to toe. Might he have been any less tired, he would have mustered the courage to ask to bathe himself, for a change. Even if the answer were to be no, he could have at least asked. But he didn’t.

He sat down in the water and let them scrub his skin raw. There were hands and rags all over him: in the crease between his breasts, along his inner thighs, and even right over his aching cunt. Everything hurt, and the rough way they handled him just made it hurt worse, but he was clean by the end of it. It was one ordeal right after the next, but Eskel endured it. He had no choice but to endure it. When the bath was finished, his only reward was a clean pair of smalls and a new shirt, one that was long enough to keep him decent and specifically designed to make nursing simple.

Eskel was dressed and put right back into bed, restraints tightened. He would be able to move, but only to the edge of the bed to sit and stretch. With the rate they were going, Eskel figured it wouldn’t be long until the bonds were tightened so far that he would not be able to move but an inch. When that happened, well. He tried not to think too hard about it.

The fanfare died down. Children were always in Kaer Morhen; none of them had been born there, but it had only been exciting for the moment. The only one who still cared to know or knew enough to care was Geralt, and he only had one goal in mind: to _meet_ the child. His own child. All he’d seen was the tuft of brown hair, but what did that tell him? They both had brown hair. Eskel’s was darker, and that was the same color as the babe. Geralt just wanted to know.

He would have given anything to know his own child, but the keep was full of rumors. In the mornings, when Geralt woke up, he went straight for training or for lessons. Their instructors talked little about the newborn, though they spoke much of upcoming trainees. None of them were quite as impressive as Geralt, but he didn’t care. Little did they speak of the newborn, but less did they answer questions. When Geralt asked, he was dismissed. Sent straight back to whatever side of the training grounds he’d come.

It had four days since his child’s birth that Geralt finally had a moment to just breathe, and he used that moment to go straight to Vesemir. If anyone would tell him something, it would have been Vesemir. Surely. If Vesemir didn’t know anything, he could at least point Geralt in the direction he needed to go. He would be satiated, if he could at least know his child’s name. No; he would be satiated to at least know what he’d _had_. Had a son or a daughter?

He couldn’t have had a mutant child. He hadn’t so much as stepped into the mess hall for his meals to find out what the people were saying, though. Fear had kept him to himself, unwilling to hear the rumors. He knew there were rumors. There were many of them.

Vesemir was sitting by the fire, pouring through records. There was so much of this life that looked to just be parchment and mess. The keep needed to be stocked, but even just the Witcher needed to be socked. He needed armor and arms, potions and ingredients. It was a constant affair of ensuring he had everything he needed and knew where to find more if he were out. A boring task, and at the sound of boots in the doorway, Vesemir looked away from his work immediately. He was none too pleased to see Geralt, however.

“I’m free,” Geralt said, before Vesemir could even think to ask him where he was _supposed_ to be. “I’m skipping mealtime.”

Vesemir let out nothing less than a disappointed snort, but he didn’t say anything. He rested his head in his hand and gestured for Geralt to come closer. They weren’t shouting, but they may as well have been for how apart they were.

Geralt stepped closer, though he was hesitant. “Do you—” How did he ask this? Geralt folded his arms and frowned. This shouldn’t have been so difficult, but just what did a child do with a child? Especially a child they hadn’t even so much as gotten to look at.

“Out with it, pup.”

“My _baby_ ,” Geralt nearly spat, but he managed to control himself. He even sounded a bit normal, when the words echoed back through his own ears. “What—I don’t even know if I have a son or a daughter. A name? Anything. Do you know _anything?_ _”_ He stepped forward, then, as a sudden desperation washed over him.

Vesemir regarded Geralt with an unmistakable look of pity. “I don’t.” Then, he paused. “You have a son, and he’s being kept in the laboratory. That’s all I know.”

Geralt sucked in one deep breath, then snorted it out through his nose.

“It’s no place for a child, I agree, but it’s not up for debate. You best not attempt to debate it. In fact, you best not even try to see your son. I can’t fathom the problems it’ll cause.”

Geralt swallowed and tried to look anywhere but Vesemir. He had absolutely no intentions of behaving, not if his son was on the line. He had a _son_. He had a son, and nobody knew his son’s name. At the very least, he could be complete knowing what the boy’s name was. While he thought maybe just knowing son or daughter would have been enough, it wasn’t. He needed to know the name, now. He hadn’t been able to see Eskel for months; Eskel would have come up with the name on his own, and Geralt hadn’t a clue where to start.

Talking about names wasn’t something they’d ever did in their free time. Geralt didn’t have much of an eye for creative things like that, and they were usually busy. That, and Eskel had only known he was pregnant for a month before they took him; that wouldn’t have been much time to decide on anything. He had to know what name Eskel picked. Whatever it was, Geralt was sure to love it, but he had to know.

“I’ll keep in line,” Geralt promised, though it was a vague enough promise that really, he didn’t mean anything by it. Vesemir still took it for face value and nodded.

“Good boy. Now, leave me to my work.”

Geralt gave a shallow bow and left on his way, attempting to look the part of his promise. He fled from Vesemir’s company and made his way back down to the courtyards. Vesemir had said the laboratory. That wasn’t hard enough to find, but more difficult to get into when he didn’t have much of a reason to be there. It wasn’t as if the doors were always open with a grand sign on front that said _all be welcome here_. Because they weren’t. It was hardly the place for a grown adult, let alone a baby.

And just as he suspected, they weren’t accepting any walk-ins. The doors were closed and barred as usual, and no amount of pounding was going to get him anywhere. If anything, it’d gotten him yelled at and threatened, because just about every single person living within Kaer Morhen was tired of him. He was tired of him, honestly. This was a lot of tiring work, but he’d never begun to think that they’d keep his son from him. He should have foreseen it coming, really, but it’d never crossed his mind.

He’d been far too busy thinking about how nice it might have been to be able to sit at Eskel’s bedside and see him hold their newborn. He might have even gotten to hold his son, then. Hear his name for the first time, see him cry, or maybe even just know the color of his eyes, the tint of his skin. He’d have watched Eskel nurse, and it would have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. This was their _family_. It couldn’t be anything less than that, but they were too far split for it to matter.

Geralt dejectedly left the laboratory. Given the time, he no doubt needed to return to his duties for the day. Still, there was this nagging feeling that he just needed to continue forward. Find _something_ before he would be calmed enough to continue his day. There was, unfortunately, nothing to be found. No way into the laboratory that wouldn’t get him zapped on sight, and with that knowledge, he returned back to training for the day.

It wasn’t until evening that Geralt finally sat down, and he did so in the mess hall. He’d been eating his meals, when he ate, elsewhere. Too afraid of the rumors he was going to hear, but now, simply overcome with exhaustion, he didn’t have the strength enough to go anywhere else. He had a relatively lackluster meal, because they would be eating nothing but mushrooms and mosses for the next couple of days—until January was over. But it was food, and that was more than could be said for his last meals.

There was, of course, good company. Reven, these days, seemed to be getting along with an older crowd. He milked the winter for whatever experience he could gain from it, talking to the other Witchers and sharing in their stories. The ones who’d taken a liking to him were a group that had Geralt more than worried, but it was easy enough to ignore Reven. He ignored Reven at the best of times. Gweld and Gardis sat with Geralt at the corner of a long table, and that made for company.

It was awkward company, but good company. Geralt was glad to have friends, though he often found his mind wandering back to the sore reality that Eskel had none, anymore. There was one thick, wooden door keeping them all apart, and even well-to-do wishes wouldn’t make it through.

“You look like a sad cow,” Gweld said, sipping on some water.

Geralt looked at him.

Gardis elbowed Gweld in the side. “He means to say something different. I know he does, but he’s just too much of a fucking idiot to say it.”

“Yeah? What do I mean, then?”

Gardis rolled his eyes. “Geralt, you _do_ look like a sad cow. You’re sulking.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Either of you two have your omega and son ripped away from you recently?”

They both looked at each other. The comment was clearly meant to snap, but Geralt sounded like he needed a good nap and a good steak. Exhausted was a good term, though it hardly covered all the facts.

To the left of them there was an older Witcher who stayed mostly at the keep, or when he did leave, he returned sooner than the others. He was getting to the point where he would stay at Kaer Morhen full time, because he would serve better use training the new boys to take his place out on the Path. He was the first story that Geralt had heard, and it was a story that left him feeling sick. The man had talked about the baby, neither boy nor girl, but born a monster. They were saying it had horns growing out of its forehead like a devil, and hooves to match.

Another Witcher had said that this baby was no better than a cursed thing. A striga or a botchling or something unlike anything they’d ever seen before. Horribly misshapen and deformed, a baby left with crooked joints and three eyes and a sideways nose. They said that it bled every night and wept every morning. Always _it_.

“I get it,” Gweld muttered. They heard the stories too. “Maybe not personally, but I get it.”

“I just want to know his name,” Geralt sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He didn’t _believe_ the stories, but he wasn’t so strong to ignore them completely. The more he heard them, coupled with the less he saw his son, the more doubt was sowed. “I just want to see him.”

Gweld and Gardis looked at each other once more; Gardis grimaced, then looked back to Geralt.

“As the brain between the three of us,” he said, pointedly, “I’d say knock that the fuck out before you cause trouble. You don’t know what trying to see this kid is going to do to you _or_ Eskel, and maybe if you did know, seeing your own son wouldn’t be worth it.”

“But?” Geralt was waiting for the but, because otherwise, he might leap across the table and throttle his friend.

“As your friend,” and Gardis sighed, “I think I might know who you can talk to.”

That had Geralt’s full attention.

The following evening, Geralt skipped his meal in turn for walking the familiar path to the bastion. Gardis’ words were echoing clearly in his mind, who he was looking for. Eskel had a friend in a mage, and though Geralt couldn’t recall specifically meeting her, the story rang familiar enough that it had to have been true. Her name was Mariette, and Geralt just had to find her. She might have taken enough pity on either of them to be more willing to give up information.

She was a mage almost exclusively for the younger boys who were still figuring out if they could even cast signs, let alone if they could do it well. That meant she could be found in the bastion, same as any other instructor for the children, of which there were many. Many children, many instructors. Only one baby. Given the late hour, and that many children were either already sent to bed or still munching on herbs somewhere, the bastion seemed quieter than it ever ought to.

It was a strange and haunted place. For as many good memories as it had, of running and playing and causing a ruckus in the yard, it held bad memories. Memories lingered well of being whipped and beaten for stepping out of line, for causing problems. Kaer Morhen was home, and like any home, it couldn’t be perfect. Still, Geralt was left to wonder if he would have ever known just how truly awful things could be if he’d never met Eskel. Never fallen in love with him, somehow.

Geralt stepped into the building, thoughts aside, and just wandered. He was looking for an older mage with a shrewd face and graying hair. A woman, too, which was almost as rare a sight in Kaer Morhen as a baby. They had _had_ babies, before. Geralt had been a baby. He just hadn’t been born here. The thought always had him grinding his teeth, and how it had him feeling a bit angry. If not for his son, then at least for the manner in which his son was here.

Would his son even know where he came from? They seemed set on ensuring that he would at least never know his father, but what would he know about his mother? Would he hear about Eskel being one of the best among them, talented in magic and sword? Or would he only here the lies of how his mother was a whore? Geralt bit down on his tongue and took a right at the upcoming fork. He found a door, took it, and came face to face with a woman sitting at a desk.

She wreaked of alpha and work. She had a shrewd looking face, almost mouse-like, and graying hair. She was looking at Geralt, too, like she knew him in passing but not like this. Something familiar, but too far off to pull from. There’d been too much happening.

“You’re Mariette,” Geralt said like a fact and not a question. He knew.

“You’re Geralt.” She knew, too. “What do you want?”

Geralt approached her desk and rested his hands right at the end of it, leaning over and just looking at her for the longest few seconds of his life. “My son,” he said. “Ideally, my omega, too.”

“Ideally, indeed. Let me rephrase—what do you want that I can give you?”

Geralt deflated, sighing. “Do you know his name?”

Mariette offered a weak smile. She looked just about as tired as Geralt felt. “His name is Emiel,” she said. “Most have taken to just calling him _the baby_ ; others hardly refer to him, at all, but. That is the name his mother gave him.”

Emiel. _Emiel_. Geralt felt his heart seize in his chest. He had a son named Emiel. That should have been enough; the name was beautiful. But the need just shifted and morphed, mutated right there on the spot from know the name to know the boy. How could he just know he had a son named Emiel if he didn’t know what Emiel _looked_ like? Did Emiel look like him? Like Eskel? Some perfect combination, perhaps, where it was impossible to know who he looked like more, but just as impossible to say he was anyone else’s son.

“I want to see him,” Geralt rasped. “I need to see Emiel—please.”

Mariette sighed, then leaned into her hand. “You are going to cause more trouble than you’re worth. Nip this in the bud now before people get hurt.”

Geralt frowned. “He’s my son! They can’t keep me from seeing him forever, can they? What are they going to do if he survives the Grasses? Are they going to lock him up when I come back for the winter?”

“Boy,” Mariette spoke harshly, standing up, “the best they’re hoping for now is that your _son_ never knows who you are. It’s safer that way.”

Geralt’s heart sank. “What about Eskel?” He finally asked.

That had Mariette plopping back down into her chair, exhausted. “I thought you’d never ask.” Clearly, she’d been expecting that to be his primary topic of conversation, but he’d come in here bumbling about a baby that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn’t matter to him. His life would be easier if he just forgot about the babe and moved on. But he wasn’t. In fact, he was so caught up with Emiel that he’d nearly forgotten the rest of everything, but Geralt was only a child. Sixteen, still, for yet a couple of a months. A one-track mind was to be expected.

“Eskel is doing well in health, poor in circumstance,” Mariette explained. “And,” she added, almost haphazardly, “he misses you.”

Geralt missed him, too. The months were easy to forget when they all dragged by together, but it had been months since they’d seen each other. Months since Geralt held Eskel, kissed him, _smelled_ him. It was easier to focus on Emiel—losing something he’d never actually had didn’t quite hurt the same way as losing Eskel did. It felt a bit like resignation to say it as such, but he had lost. For all intents and purposes, Geralt had lost.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Mariette sighed. “I say this because it’s the truth, not because I condone it. Things are at a standstill for the moment because they’re still working on a way to feed a baby without Eskel doing it, himself. I’d say they’re only a few days away from that, though, and once they are, things will progress. Progress, of course, looks like _opening for business_ ,” she said. “They’re already looking at which boys they think will make the best match.”

Geralt felt sick.

“I don’t think it’ll take long before the order collapses. Rennes doesn’t seem to have much stock in it, at this point. As long as there are more children born, he doesn’t care. They just can’t be _yours_.”

Geralt covered his mouth, bile in his throat.

“And I mean he does not care. I’m sure you can fill in what that means. You’re a smart boy.”

Geralt wished he didn’t know what it meant, but he did. It was plain enough as day, right there. If the goal had just been to have more children, there was a better way to go about it than this, but this is what was happening. Designed to _hurt_ more than it was to be helpful. As long as there were children born, Rennes didn’t care. He didn’t care what happened to Eskel or who used him in what ways, as long as there was a child to show at some point.

“He’s young,” Mariette said. “I’ve advised Rennes that it’s still safer to allow rest between pregnancies, but not only is Eskel young, he’s half a Witcher. He’s stronger than any omega I’ve ever met, and that’s not to his advantage. If he’s not having another child by autumn, I would be shocked.”

Geralt couldn’t muster the strength to speak, so he just nodded.

“You shouldn’t have bonded with him,” Mariette said. “That will do him no favors during what is to come.”

She started to explain it to him, because she felt that he really just needed to know the extent of what damage he’d done. Geralt couldn’t blame her; she was acting like any parent would in the face of their child suffering. She looked after Eskel much like Vesemir looked after Geralt, so Geralt understood. She didn’t look at Geralt as a friend; she looked at him as the boy who had single-handedly put Eskel in this situation. His bond might have been nice if they were two farm boys living out in the countryside with only goats to tend to, because then they could make love whenever they wanted. Eskel would be happy.

But the bond now would just cause him untold agony. Already, he was left dejected and withering because Geralt wasn’t there; it was beginning to feel like abandonment. When the inevitable came, and it would come—it would not be long before Eskel was spreading his legs for whatever lucky alpha got to have him first—it would be worse than worse. The bond would cause Eskel’s body to physically reject it, make him sick; that’s why he would be restrained; otherwise, he might actually attack. But he wouldn’t be able to. That wouldn’t stop the rest of it.

Vomiting. Agony. An inability to relax, which would make everything hurt _worse_. They had potions to give him, but they proved to be of little comfort. Geralt didn’t want to hear about how they were going to give _his_ omega potions to make him relax, make him _accept_ another alpha.

“They’ll induce heats, too,” Mariette said.

Geralt stopped listening, after that. Omegas could get pregnant out of heat, but it was too rare a chance to count on. They wouldn’t count on it. Geralt couldn’t listen to a thing, after that, because it was awful. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like, nor did he want to know. Knowing that Eskel would have to endure it, alone, was enough to make his heart rate spike. He barely worded his farewell before he tore from the room, unable to listen to another _second_.

He’d done this. If he hadn’t been so _stupid_ , at least he could still be there with Eskel. Comfort him, hold him, so _something_ to make up for this awful mess he’d been thrown into. How could Geralt not blame himself? If he’d just been _better_ , they could have done something. If he’d only _known_ —there was no way he could have known, but oh, how that didn’t stop the ache.

Geralt left the bastion as quickly as he could. He couldn’t stand to be there another moment. He couldn’t stand to be in Kaer Morhen, but he couldn’t leave. It was when he finally gave up, doubling over against a wall to vomit out whatever food he’d had to eat, that he decided he could _never_ leave Kaer Morhen. Not if Eskel was still here. They would leave together or not at all, because even amid the guilt, knowing what he’d done, Geralt wanted to do more.

He wanted to meet his son. He wanted to protect Eskel. His instincts were burning up inside of him to scream that’s what alphas did. They protected their family, and his family needed him as much as he needed them. He needed Eskel back. It would be the only thing that would calm down this growing sickness in his gut. Until then, he vomited against the stone wall. He could take any punishment they threw at him. No amount of whipping was going to keep him from seeing his child.

No amount of it would keep him from protecting his omega, either.

Geralt went straight for the laboratory; he was sure they were looking for him, by now, but he didn’t care. Just a look. That’s all he needed was a look. He’d climb in through one of the stone-cut windows and meet his son, and then he would get himself back on track. They wouldn’t hurt a baby, not one they were planning to rear into a Witcher. Emiel would be safe, so Geralt didn’t have to worry about him. He wouldn’t have to worry until it came time for Emiel to pass his first trial. He still had to see him.

There were hundreds of people in the keep at any given time, but so many of them were just fodder for the trials. There were instructors, mages, and children. The children died, so they had many of them. It meant sneaking around wasn’t quite as hard as it should be, even with it being winter. Geralt could blend in, if he tried to. He was a bit distinctive at the best of times, and anyone who knew him could know him by scent, alone. Still, this was a chance worth taking.

Geralt followed the scent, the perfect mixture of orange blossom and pine. Emiel’s scent. It had to be him, because who else would smell just like they did? He followed that scent until he found the first window, then jabbed the toe of his boot into the smallest bit of space between the stacked stones to give himself a boost. It took three tries to get a grip on the window, but he managed. More specifically, he managed before anyone caught him. Dropping down into the laboratory was easy, after that, and he made absolutely no plans for how to get out.

He just followed the scent. He wasn’t expecting anything beautiful like a silken bassinet with a curtain over the top; that was accommodation for a noble baby. Where Geralt found Emiel was still worse than he might have imagined, if he’d imagined it. Emiel was lying, wrapped up in blankets, in a box that had probably been pulled out from under a table somewhere and quickly emptied of its contents, simply because it was big enough to hold him. That was one part of the rumors that were true—Emiel was large.

Geralt had never really seen what babies looked like, but he did know that Emiel was only about a week old. He might have not been able to tell that from the size of him if he didn’t know it, already. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Geralt approached the makeshift bed and just _looked_. Emiel was awake, cooing and shifting in his little blanket cocoon to find a comfortable way to lay. Geralt was overtaken with the sight of him. Blue eyes, dark and wavy hair, and soft skin.

“Hey,” Geralt whispered, coming closer. “You must be Emiel. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Emiel crooned at him, silly little blubbering noises. He looked at Geralt, too, and Geralt couldn’t help but think it was recognition. He didn’t know how smart babies were, either, but there was this glint in Emiel’s eye that said that maybe, just maybe, he knew Geralt’s smell by instinct. Geralt chanced the slightest touch, then, not content with just being able to _see_ his son. Emiel had the chubbiest little cheeks, a straight nose, full lips. He was beautiful. Geralt couldn’t help himself, so he petted his fingers back through Emiel’s hair.

“You look like your mommy,” Geralt whispered. “I bet you’ll be just as strong as him, too.”

Babies grabbed, and Geralt learned that quickly. He trailed his fingers down the side of Emiel’s face, and then Emiel was grabbing at his hand. Geralt let him, lowering down his hand so Emiel could grab his outstretched finger. Emiel’s two little hands gripped, and they gripped _hard_.

“Oh—” Geralt chuckled to himself. “You are strong, aren’t you? Sorry I doubted you.” He didn’t know much about babies, but he was sure they couldn’t grab _that_ hard. Not this soon after birth, anyway. It hadn’t quite been a week.

Emiel made a little gurgling noise. He was smiling, a bit of drool down his chin. It was the cutest thing Geralt had ever seen, and it hurt to know he had to leave. He couldn’t stay for long; he didn’t know how long it would take for someone to wander over here and find him. Emiel hadn’t let go of his finger, though, which left one course of action. Emiel may have been strangely strong for his age, but Geralt was still at least mostly grown. He pulled his finger back.

And regretted it instantly.

Immediately, Emiel’s face scrunched up, and he readied to cry. His little mouth opened up; his fingers bunched into fists. There were tears before there was sound, but the _moment_ Emiel began to wail, Geralt shoved his hand back to him. He pressed his hand against Emiel’s bare little chest, softly, and that was enough to soothe him right back to cooing. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright, little guy. You’re trouble, I can tell.” Geralt smiled. “Just like me, hm? Yeah. Couldn’t be entirely like your mommy. Though, your mommy caused a lot of trouble, too.”

Emiel made another little baby’s noise and grabbed at Geralt’s fingers. It was almost sad to see how happy some contact made him; it meant he wasn’t getting any. Geralt only knew in passing that he was at least getting to see Eskel, though, if it was just to be fed, that couldn’t have been enough.

“I told your mommy this, but I’ll tell you too,” Geralt said, quietly. “I’m going to get you out. You just have to hold on until I can, okay? Going to make things better.”

He didn’t know how much better. He didn’t know to what that better would be comparing to, as things getting worse was always a possibility. He didn’t even know if this was a promise that he could fulfill, but he was definitely going to try it. He had to. He couldn’t give up, not after seeing Emiel. His son was beautiful. His son deserved to grow up with _parents_ , at the very least.

Emiel still smiled, as babies did, and grabbed at Geralt’s hand.

“You smile just like your mommy, too,” Geralt muttered. He missed Eskel. “I’ve got to go, sweetheart. Next time, I’ll bring you something.” He leaned over the makeshift crib to kiss Emiel’s forehead. This time, he didn’t have to fight to get his hand back. He took special care to ensure the blankets were pulled up around Emiel, to keep him warm, then watched for a moment as Emiel wriggled down and got comfortable.

Geralt climbed out the very way he came, using a table for leverage, this time. He stopped in the window to look back into the laboratory. From here, he couldn’t see Emiel, but he knew he was in there. Geralt even knew that he might have a chance to get to see him; they wouldn’t keep him here, forever. It would be easier to sneak into the bastion than the laboratory.

Emiel was brought to Eskel’s prison six to eight times a day, just depending on when he needed to be fed. And he was a growing baby—he was hungry, nearly constantly. This time, though, the woman who brought him over had something _else_. It looked like a pump, but she didn’t mention anything about it. It was just routine, at this point, because Emiel needed to be fed. He needed to be fed bad enough that he was wailing. There were tears just streaked down his face, and Eskel couldn’t have him in his arms fast enough.

Eskel took up the bundle while the woman shifted to the opposite side of the bed. He ignored her, entirely, and instead focused on Emiel, on hushing him. Eskel rocked the babe, bouncing him just slight enough to be comforting instead of jarring.

“There we go,” Eskel muttered. “No more crying. You’re such a handsome boy, aren’t you? Look so much like your daddy.”

He could hear the woman beside him snort. She didn’t sign up for listening to _that_ , but Eskel wasn’t going to miss a second of being able to see his little boy. Emiel looked so much like he craved this. The moment he was in Eskel’s arms, he quieted and leaned into him, always trying to get closer and closer still. Eskel was almost glad when the woman finally unlaced his shirt, because Emiel craved the skin-to-skin contact more than anything. What did shock him was that she unlaced both shoulders of the shirt, not just the side where Emiel’s head was situated.

“What’s going on?” Eskel asked. This was different.

“Just hush up and feed the brat,” her response was. Eskel frowned, but what choice did he have? Emiel was already back on his way to crying, again. Eskel let the woman tuck his shirt down beneath his breasts, then he just focused on Emiel. He got Emiel situated right where he needed to be, and then pointedly ignored how that pump was attached to his other breast.

It was better not to ask, because the fear always returned in full force. Emiel was going to be taken from him, and that was the end. He’d never see his little boy again. That always clenched up tight at the base of his throat and made breathing difficult, that thought. Emiel was _his_. They didn’t have the right to take him away, but they did it. As often as Emiel was brought back, he was taken away. Again, and again. Eskel feared the time that would be the last.

He tried not to focus on it, and instead just watched Emiel’s face. His little eyes were open, if not a bit teary, still. He had a hand pressed against Eskel’s skin, too, suckling at his own pace. It’d been strange the first time, but now it was just normal. Being so close to Emiel was nice. Getting to see his face like this was even better. The touch was almost incomparable. The only thing that would make it all better was if Geralt was sitting with him, leaned in close with his arm around Eskel’s shoulder.

The pump felt strange, but Eskel closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. Though, it was just about all he could think of it until it was pulled off, and that was the only time Eskel allowed himself to look. There was a red ring around his nipple from where it’d latched on, and he saw what was unmistakably a bottle full of his milk. He gulped but turned back to Emiel.

“Such a pretty boy,” Eskel whispered to him. “I love you, so much.” Because something didn’t feel right. “I know your daddy does, too.” Because he missed Geralt with every fiber of his being. His bond mark _ached_ at the very thought of Geralt, a constantly pressing question of why had Geralt bitten him and left him? Eskel knew that wasn’t the truth, but his instincts didn’t. They just knew that Eskel’s alpha wasn’t here with him, and that made everything hurt.

When Emiel was done, he always made sure everyone knew. He made this little noise and pushed at Eskel, a very determined _get away_. But never far. This was usually the point where whoever brought Emiel took him away, but this time, Eskel got to hold him for a moment longer. He shifted Emiel up into his arms, to lay over his shoulder, and just held him. Babies needed burped, he knew that much, but he’d never gotten to do it. This time, he did.

He patted Emiel’s back until he heard the first little one, and he smiled. Eskel rested his head against Emiel’s bundled little body and closed his eyes, just continuing to pat the space of his back where the blankets were falling away. Touch was so important; nobody had needed to tell him that. It hadn’t taken him long to figure it out, with the way Emiel reacted to it. It made Eskel feel better, too. When he heard the next little burp, he smiled wider. The woman just sat there while it happened, waiting.

It took a whole twenty minutes before Emiel was finished, and that was a whole twenty minutes extra that Eskel got to hold him. That was the end of it, though, and he knew before the woman even said something. She stood up, packing away her stolen milk and pump in a satchel.

“Time to go,” she said.

Eskel shifted Emiel back down into his arms, again, cradling him in the crook of his elbow. He made sure that his blanket bundle was wrapped up tightly around him, to keep him warm. Then, he pressed a lingering kiss to Emiel’s forehead.

“Mommy loves you,” Eskel whispered. “You be good, now.”

The woman took Emiel, after that, hoisted him up in her own arms with little care for how she did it. She looked at Eskel with almost pure disgust, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to commit it all to memory—the feeling, the look of his son in his arms. He never knew if it’d be the last time he saw Emiel. Never wanted it to be, but he had no control. Watching Emiel being carried out of the room was the hardest part of his life, and it happened again. The door closed. Eskel was alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: explicit rape/non-con, mention of violence towards a child, blood/gore, physical punishment, sexually explicit conversations
> 
> the rape scene is from "Reven gave Noel a deceptively kind smile" to "Nobody had to tell them where Reven" if you would prefer to skip

The next time the door opened, it was someone bringing Eskel his food. For two weeks, that was the only interaction Eskel had. They never once brought Emiel back, though there were often times where that pump was re-attached while he ate. He knew what it meant. He wasn’t ever going to see Emiel again, and he was just going to have to suffer that reality. It’d been three weeks since Emiel had been born. Two weeks since Eskel had seen him last. He was left miserable and dejected, but at least he was fed.

Once every other day he was pulled out of bed, stripped, and forcibly bathed. When it was over, he was thrown back into bed, chains tightened. It happened like clockwork. It was edging somewhere between the third and the fourth week when it happened again, pulled out of bed, stripped, and roughly bathed. This time, though, he was not dressed before he was thrown back into bed. He struggled; it was the first time he’d struggled against the restraints in months, but this wasn’t _right_.

“What’s going on?” He demanded, and nobody answered. They held him down and tightened the restraints to the point where his arms were pulled taught above his head and he couldn’t move. He was helpless, exposed. And then, the door opened again.

Eskel gulped. Reven walked in. Was led in, really, and with an older mage by the name of Noel. He was carrying a satchel, which contained the telltale sound of vials clinking together. Potions. Oils. Eskel didn’t know. He just knew that Reven was leering at him, staring him up and down.

Reven had never liked him, not really. There had been often enough times where Reven called him names. He was fat, he was ugly, he was useless or burdensome. But Reven had always taking a shining to him, regardless of how he felt on Eskel’s attractiveness. That was simply because Geralt liked Eskel and had never once been subtle about it. While Reven had no hope of ever winning out on that battle by wooing Eskel from Geralt’s side, this was another way he could win. He wore the success right on his face.

“Rennes has ordered we progress,” Noel said. “We can’t afford to wait around for the bitch’s heat to come in naturally.”

But they could. Eskel _knew_ they could. Mariette had talked so much about it, how it wouldn’t be entirely safe to go from one pregnancy to the next. It may not even be _possible_ to get pregnant again so soon. He hadn’t even begun to bleed, and while Eskel didn’t even know what that was referring to, Marietta had made a deal of it. Rennes had said go ahead with it, try whatever worked. But get it done, and so that’s what they were doing. It was that alone that had Eskel terrified this wasn’t even about having children.

One omega was hardly enough to fill the keep with new recruits, though he could provide _some_. The ones he could provide may even be stronger than the ones they could find outside, but he was only one omega. If their reasoning was sound, he would not be the only one in their messed-up breeding chamber. But he was. It all came down to that look on Reven’s face; this wasn’t utilitarian. Reven was going to _enjoy_ this.

Eskel wished painfully hard that Geralt was with him. Mariette, even. He’d settle to have Vesemir if it meant he wouldn’t be alone with this fate, but it was staring him right in the eye. Reven’s horrifying eyes. They looked the same as any other boy who’d passed the Grasses. Golden with a slitted pupil. But his were frightening. Leering. Threatening. Eskel tried to shrink away, but where was there to go?

“He hasn’t even gone back into heat, yet,” one of the female mages argued. “What’s Rennes thinking?”

“A good chance for an experiment, actually,” Noel said. He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a vial of cloudy white liquid. “It’s supposed to induce a heat, though we’ve had little time to see if it works. They use things like this in brothels for those high paying customers.”

The female mage frowned, but Noel just wagged the vial in the air.

“Begone, the lot of you!” Noel shouted. “Rennes has approved this business, and you won’t interfere with it.”

Nobody argued. They gathered up their things, including Eskel’s clothes, and left. The whole lot of them, just as Noel ordered, shuffled out of the door and closed it behind them. Noel had a key to the door, now, and the guards were removed. It was just the three of them: Eskel, Reven, and Noel. Eskel had a feeling it was them against him.

Noel stepped around the bed and sat right down on the edge of it, close enough that Eskel could feel the jut of his hip against his side. _Smell_ him. Noel was an alpha. An alpha with a horrifying ulterior motive, one that Eskel didn’t want to think of. He uncorked the vial and offered it forward, but Eskel clamped his lips shut and turned his head away.

“You will drink this, boy,” Noel snarled. Eskel nearly felt compelled to listen, under the horrible gazes of two domineering alphas. But he held himself back.

“Why should I?” He bit back.

“Because I know where your brat is,” Reven piqued up, folding his arms and smirking.

“Silence yourself, Reven,” Noel snapped. But Reven had already said it; he’d made the threat. Eskel didn’t even know if it were true, but the threat lingered in the air and grew more terrifying with every passing second. Reven could see it on his face, too, how _afraid_ Eskel was of the possibility that Emiel would be hurt in retaliation for his own wrongdoings. Emiel was just a baby.

“Why him?” Eskel squeaked. “Answer me that, and I’ll—” he looked at the vial. “I’ll drink it.”

Noel offered a feigned smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m always willing to make a deal.”

Reven was here because it was his _right_ to be here. The only way to get Eskel was pregnant was for a viable alpha to share his heat. They had a limited number to choose from, as it could only be boys who had presented and had yet to undergo the Trial of the Dreams. Of those, Reven was the oldest. It wouldn’t be fair to ask the younger boys until Reven was offered a chance, and he had, of course, responded with a resounding affirmative. _Honored_ to potentially father Kaer Morhen’s next mutant baby.

Eskel gulped, but he did as he’d promised. With that horrible bit of information, he swallowed down the vial of murky liquid. It tasted like ash against his tongue, but he swallowed all of it, then the air until Noel pulled the vial away. Noel re-corked it, then stood away from the bed.

“It should take effect in ten minutes; if it doesn’t, Reven, do come and find me. I should hate for you to miss this opportunity.”

Reven gave Noel a deceptively kind smile, then even held the door open for him on his way out. Before Noel left, he informed them that food and water would be delivered three times a day. The heat induced would be exactly like a real one, and it would last three to four days. Eskel was in for a treat, and that was said none too kindly before the door was shut and locked. Locked.

Eskel had only had one heat. It’d lasted four days and had been with _Geralt_. Eskel expected much the same in terms of length, intensity. He remembered how much it had _hurt_ to not be touched. Afraid, now, that it would hurt worse because it wasn’t Geralt touching him. Already, he could feel a strange aching tingle passing down his spine, through his thighs, and to his toes. He wanted Geralt. He wanted Geralt, but he was smelling someone else.

Reven smelled like his horse, and it was something Eskel was used to, but that was with Geralt. Geralt’s horse. This was so much different, so foreign. The very smell of it was making Eskel sick, as the heat continued to trickle through him.

Reven could smell the very beginnings of this fake heat, and it brought him closer. His pupils were blown wide, much like Geralt’s had been the first time he’d smelled Eskel’s heat. The difference was, Geralt had been kind, controlled. He’d wanted to _please_ , as much as he wanted to have. Reven looked like a predator as he began to strip off his clothes. Looked like one, too, with how his muscles rippled. They would all be seventeen in just a few weeks, but Reven and Geralt both looked like _men_.

“Please—” Eskel swallowed around the word. “ _Geralt_.”

There came a snort; Reven was working on his laces. “You really think I’m going to pass this up? No, no. I’m going to lord this over Geralt for _months_.” Reven pushed his breeches down, stepped out of them and his boots. He crawled up onto the edge of the bed. “Going to tell him how his little bitch begged for my cock until he cried.” He grabbed Eskel’s hair and wrenched his head back, exposing the length of his neck. “Might even make you _my_ bitch. Do you think that’s possible?”

Eskel whimpered. He could feel it starting. The sudden, impossible heat. There was an ache in his loins he couldn’t fathom, a sudden fogginess of the mind. He pressed his knees together, holding his hands into fists so tightly that his nails dug into the heels of his palms. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Reven anywhere _near_ him, but Reven was half on top of him, a bare hand in his hair and a gloved one on his neck. Eskel was trembling, from fear and from ache. Nothing _good_.

“Do you scream, puppy?” Reven asked. “I think I’d like to hear that.”

Eskel closed his eyes, hard, when Reven kissed him. It was hard, and _hot_ , and awful. Eskel struggled against it, and the moment he could get his mouth open, he chomped down on Reven’s lip. Reven pulled back, immediately. There was blood from the wound, blood on Eskel’s face. Reven let out one harrowing snarl before raising his hand and slapping Eskel across the face. His head shot to the side, Eskel’s eyes wide and teeth dug into the side of his cheek so there was _more_ blood.

Reven smirked, then, hearing Eskel’s resounding whine. He grabbed Eskel by the chin and wrenched his head forward, which gave him enough room to sneak his gloved hand behind Eskel’s head. Along his neck. Eskel’s entire body went tense as Reven inched closer to his bond mark. Eskel had mere minutes left, and he could feel it. His cunt was a slick mess, leaking between his thighs, over the sheet. There was blood in his mouth. His body’s tautness turned right to jelly as Reven touched along his bond mark.

“ _No_ ,” Eskel cried. “No, no—stop—”

Reven shushed him, and he shushed. He hated it. How he just _responded_ , all from a touch to that mark on the back of his neck. He wasn’t supposed to hate that mark. That mark was special. It was _his_. It was Geralt’s. And Reven was rubbing little circles into it with his leather glove and making Eskel whimper, make his thighs relax and fall apart. He’d just been _slapped_ , and this is how he was going to respond? He hated it. Eskel wanted it _gone_ , the damned mark. The damned all of it.

“Just a fucking bitch,” Reven snapped. “Look how easy you are. Noel told me how I could deal with an omega _slut_ like you, but I didn’t think it’d be that easy.”

Then, Reven let Eskel’s head hit the pillows and moved down. He smelled of heat, now, just raw with the scent. It shocked through Reven’s system, harder and hotter as he slid down Eskel’s body, touched every inch of him until he was resting between Eskel’s thighs. At the first _touch,_ Reven’s bare hand over the mound of Eskel’s pelvis, Eskel reacted near violently. The pleasant touch had evaporated, instantly, and Eskel kicked, struggled.

“Get— _fuck_ ,” Eskel couldn’t get the words together. It hurt to move. Everything hurt. He ached from the inside out, as dripping in his own slick.

He wouldn’t beg. Not Reven. Reven’s touch was making him _sick_. He wanted Geralt. He wanted Geralt to fuck into him, split him open and knot him again and again. Make him feel full, make him feel loved. He ached for it.

Reven was angry. He grabbed Eskel by the hips and flipped him, straining his arms and making him cry out. Eskel’s shoulders twisted badly in the bonds, and he gasped into the pillows as Reven pushed him down _harder,_ forcing his hips into the mattress and crushing his little straining cock. Eskel cried out again, but Reven just tore his thighs apart. He kept one hand right on the swell of Eskel’s ass while he leaned forward and pressed his gloved hand right back into Eskel’s bond mark.

“You fucking—” Reven snarled. “Teach you to act like that. Don’t you know that whores are supposed to do what they’re _told_?” Reven pushed down on Eskel’s neck. It was a jolt of pleasure as much as it was pain, and Eskel nearly spasmed. He wanted to get away from it, and at the same time, all he could register was touch.

Reven forced his thighs farther apart and worked his smalls down with one hand, managed to get them on the floor without removing his _touch_. It was keeping Eskel still, keeping him controlled. He was practically drooling into his pillow, mind swirling with hate and need and want. If he’d known his mark could be used against him, he never would have. He wouldn’t have wanted it. This left his stomach in knots, feeling disgusting and used. And then Reven was touching him, right between his thighs.

At the first touch of Reven’s fingers through his cunt, Eskel cried out, struggled. He didn’t—he couldn’t. He didn’t want this. This wasn’t Geralt, and he was _Geralt_ _’s_. Reven didn’t care. If anything, he thought it was funny. He dragged his nails through Eskel’s flesh, and it was only the pillows that muffled Eskel’s cry. That just dredged up a warm laugh right from Reven’s gut, one that made Eskel want to vomit.

“That’s a good little puppy,” Reven hummed. “Just waiting to spread your legs for your _master_ , hm? I knew you’d like me better. Bet I can fuck you better, too.”

Eskel tried to struggle, but it sent jolts of pain down his spine from the twist in his shoulders. And it bore down a heavy slap as Reven struck him across the back. Threats of brining a whip, next time, keep Eskel in his place. _Next time_ rung more terrifying than any whip. Eskel cried into the pillows, and he didn’t have another moment to breathe.

Reven’s cock was suddenly against him, pressed right up between the swollen lips of his cunt and _rubbing_. Eskel’s throat clenched, his thighs tightened. He could feel the head of Reven’s prick right up against his hole, pushing through the slick just leaking out of him. Reven was achingly hard, just from the scent alone.

“Please,” Eskel whimpered. “Don’t—”

“Please?” Reven parroted. “Don’t make you wait? Oh, puppy, I would _never_.”

Reven rolled his hips forward, and Eskel clenched on instinct. No, _no_ , he didn’t want this. But he couldn’t stop it. Reven stopped the abuse on his mark and pulled his gloved hand down, dragging over Eskel’s sensitive skin. He peeled Eskel’s labia apart, rubbing right between them. Pushing. The first breach hit in an instant, and Eskel nearly screamed as the pain pushed through him.

“Have to tell Noel to get something to open you up, _fuck_. Is this because you miss Geralt?” Reven hissed through his teeth, pushing forward. Eskel was so tight, and he had to hold his own cock steady to force the tip through.

“ _Stop_ —” Eskel sobbed. His whole body began to shake, but Reven just kept pushing.

Once his cockhead popped through, the rest went easily. Eskel nearly ripped around the intrusion, crying and struggling and fighting. His walls spasmed, clenching down—get it _out_ —but nothing he did meant anything. He just heard Reven moan right from the base of his throat and sobbed again. Reven was enjoying it. How tight it was, the cinched heat around him. His cock twitched inside of Eskel, every inch he pushed deeper was another rush of feeling.

“I’ve fucked some of the younger boys,” Reven said, leaning over Eskel. “But _nothing_ compares to this, _fuck_.” He rocked his hips, pushed deeper and deeper until Eskel’s meager attempt at fighting didn’t mean anything, anymore. They were pressed entirely together, Eskel’s thighs spread out uncomfortably wide and legs hanging off the sides of the bed to accommodate _everything_. He could feel Reven’s heavy sac against his cunt, the hot skin of his pelvis, his thighs. Even the ticking of hair growing thick at the base of his cock.

“You were made for this, puppy,” Reven gasped. “Nothing better for an omega to do than lay down and get fucked. _Fuck_ , I’m going to fill you up. Can’t wait for you to have _my_ baby. How’s that going to make your poor Geralt feel?”

Reven leaned back and grabbed Eskel by the hips, pulling back slowly just to snap forward and breach him all over again. Eskel cried out at the force of it, his breath all but punched from his lungs. There was bile up in his throat, and he gagged when Reven did it again. He didn’t _want_ this.

“I can’t wait to tell Geralt all about this,” Reven said, his breath punctuated only by the thrusts of his hips. “His pretty little omega bent right over for me and _begged_ for my cock.”

Reven grabbed the back of Eskel’s throat with his bare hand and squeezed. Immediately, Eskel began to panic. His whole body lurched, jolted, and he wretched onto the pillows. Reven forced his face into it, fucked him harder. With his glove hand, he slapped down the length of Eskel’s back. Dig his fingers into each burning welt and slapped him again. He hit hard—with all the strength of a would be Witcher, a man who could throw a sword around like it weighed nothing.

“ _Beg_ for me,” Reven snapped. “I want to hear you say something nasty.”

Eskel whimpered in response; he couldn’t even form the words in his head, let alone make them with his tongue. He was gagging on his own spit, body left in tremors from Reven’s onslaught. The drag of Reven’s cock burned like nothing he’d ever felt before. Every fiber in his being was screaming for him to reject this, to get away, but he was trapped. He couldn’t _move_ , and even if he could, Reven was already on top of him, inside of him. Fucking him open hard, and fast; Eskel swore he even smelled _blood_.

“Say it!” Reven yelled. “I want to hear you _beg_ , you little slut, or the next hole I fuck is going to be your sweet, sweet baby boy’s. Is that what you want? I’ll drop his fucking dead body back in here next time, then make sure I fuck you so hard you’re having triplets for me, right? Have to make up for what we lost.”

“No!” Eskel shouted, his whole body shaking with the sound of his voice. “No, no, no, _please_ —”

“Then _beg_ , you worthless pile of shit.”

Eskel begged. Every word tasted like bile in his throat, and he gagged on them. “F-Fuck me,” he tried, breath wavering. “ _Please_ , Reven, fuck me— _harder—_ _”_ Eskel cried out when Reven did just that, slapping his hips forward hard enough to hurt. “I—I want your cock,” Eskel continued. “I want you—oh, fuck, _please_ knot me!”

Reven’s nails dug into his skin, and it hurt. Reven scratched, clawed, all in attempts to get a better grip. He yanked Eskel back on his cock with each painful thrust, groaning to himself as he fucked through that tight heat.

“Better than Geralt?” He snarled, leaning over Eskel. He licked a hard stripe right across Eskel’s bond mark, and the touch made him convulse and wretch.

“Better.” Eskel agreed, his eyes closing tight. His voice was nearly lost, already.

“You’ll be ruined by the time I’m done with you,” Reven promised, and Eskel believed him. How could he ever face Geralt after this? His face was red with shame, sticky with his own vomit as Reven forced his face through it again.

Reven’s hand was in his hair, another one scraping down his back and all of the sore red spots he’d left with his strikes. His hips never stopped, snapping forward with the type of stamina only a Witcher boy could have. It hurt. Every fuck forward stung; Eskel could feel every inch of Reven’s cock inside of him, twitching and working deeper, deeper. He could feel when the base began to swell, coupled with Reven’s awful, guttural groan. Eskel closed his eyes tight and just _cried_ , then.

He felt Reven’s teeth in his neck before the knot finally took, and Eskel screamed. It ripped right through him, the knot and Reven’s teeth. And it _hurt_. Teeth sunk into his skin, biting, tearing, and ripping. Eskel could _feel_ it—the beginnings of that same something when Geralt had bitten him, only Reven’s would never take. The bite just hurt. It hurt, and it hurt, and Reven was grinding his knot into Eskel. He pulled back just enough to threaten to pull it out.

Eskel hadn’t even noticed when Reven came inside of him. All he knew was the pain of Reven’s teeth—another bite mark, below the second. A third, somewhere. The grinding of his knot. Every movement was just another threat to pull away and rip Eskel right apart. Fear left him trembling, and the pain left him crying. He screamed for Reven, each time another bite mark started. Ended. Would never take. Oh, but Eskel could feel it _trying_. Trying to rip at the one he already had, but Reven hadn’t bitten over top that one, and he would never be strong enough to overtake it.

Suddenly, Reven was carding his fingers back through Eskel’s hair. Almost a comfort. His hips were still moving, and he was digging his gloved fingers over the newly formed bites, but he still stroked Eskel’s locks out of his face, behind his ear.

“Don’t worry, little puppy,” Reven whispered, “I’m not done with you, yet.”

Eskel whimpered and gripped his hands into fists. He couldn’t even count down the days, because this day was not yet over. He knew Reven would take full advantage of every second of this fake heat that he had, and it didn’t seem to die down like his first, had. The first one had come in waves. There were long moments of insatiable need where having Geralt inside of him was just not enough, could never have been enough. But there were moments of rest where they just slept together.

Reven did not even wait until his knot went down to start moving again. Every shift felt like fire, and Eskel could only hope he wouldn’t make it through the day. If it was just so much that he passed right out, he might be able to endure whatever Reven had to give him.

Nobody had to tell them where Reven had gone for Geralt to know it wasn’t good. By the fourth day of Reven’s absence, Geralt knew that he was right. Something awful was happening, but there was nothing Geralt could do. He couldn’t sneak away from training; as much as every bone in his body ached to see Eskel, to see Emiel, he had to go lengths of time without trying anything. If he tried too often, he was just going to get himself caught and into even more trouble.

Unfortunately, Geralt was coming to the conclusion that he didn’t care how much trouble he could get into. Not when Reven came waltzing down into the courtyard stinking of heat and sex without even the decency to _bathe_ before he returned to training. That wasn’t even the worst of it. He walked right up to Geralt, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around that they might face each other. And Geralt saw the blood on his lips. Smelled the blood. Smelled of Eskel.

“Thanks for sharing,” Reven sneered. “He squealed like a bitch once I finally fucked him open.”

Geralt stared at him, wide eyes. That had just poured the fuel, and it would be only seconds before the fire began if Reven did not pick his next words very carefully.

“You should have heard how he _begged_ for me,” Reven said. He moved his hand from Geralt’s shoulder to grab the collar of his shirt, instead. “Said my cock was better than yours. Wished he could have had _my_ bite mark instead of yours.”

Coals like a burning ember. Geralt was trying to keep himself in control. There was always a crackling fear that anything he did would bode poorly for Eskel but listening to this made him grind his teeth and imagine all the wonderful ways he could crack Reven’s skull in his fist.

“They just induced his heat, which means they can do it again and again and again, until he’s just begging for a cock inside him _constantly_. Wouldn’t that be nice? A little potion brew is all it takes before he’s all loose and relaxed, just like a proper whore. Already begging for me to come back.” Reven laughed, tightening his grip on Geralt’s shirt. “And I’m going back. Just need to stretch my legs—”

Geralt forwent the sword in his hand altogether; he dropped it, formed a fist, and punched Reven right in the nose, with all the strength he could muster. There was a loud resounding crack between them, and Reven stumbled backwards with the force. His nose was bleeding, crooked and broken, but he lunged for Geralt. The rest of it was nothing more than a panicked, snarling blur as they tore at each other, ripped and snapped and clawed and hit.

They tumbled to the ground, Geralt pounding his fists into Reven’s face over and over—Reven bucked up, flipped them and returned the favor until they were all but rolling down the little hill in the courtyard. Fighting. Screaming. Shouting. Somewhere outside of themselves they could hear the rest of the shouting. Gardis and Gweld were trying to get them to stop, but there was only so much to be done. Reven had just threatened Geralt’s _omega_ , and if Reven walked out of this alive, then what sort of an alpha exactly was Geralt? Not a good one.

It wasn’t until they were physically pulled apart that their fight ended—Osbert grabbed Reven while it took both Gardis and Gweld to get Geralt out of the mix. They were still clawing for each other, deep horrible snarls from their guts as they tried to get back into the fight. Prove who was strongest, right then and there. Whoever came out alive would be the ultimate winner, but their fight was over before it ever really begun.

“What the fuck is wrong with you both!?” Osbert shouted. “You’re brothers in arms! Stop this nonsense!”

“Geralt started it!” Reven shouted.

“And Rennes is going to end it,” Osbert snapped, and they both listened. That was the worst threat either of them had ever heard. Their squabbles were never escalated so high, but this was more than a squabble.

Reven’s nose was broken; he had a black and bloody swollen eye. His lips were split. The blood from it all was dripping down into his shirt, staining his skin as well as the fabric. He looked like he’d just been beaten to shit, and he had been. Geralt looked no better off, though he could boast no broken bones. He was covered in blood, some of it from cuts and bite marks while the rest of it was Reven’s. This hadn’t been a squabble. They’d tried to kill each other, and Osbert was not so unintelligent that he didn’t know that. They couldn’t hide it.

“Wait—is that necessary?” Gweld asked before he thought what a stupid idea it was.

“If you’re going to start questioning me, you can share in whatever punishment they get!” Osbert snapped, and Gweld shut his mouth.

Both Geralt and Reven were dragged off, simply because they were not trusted to keep their hands to themselves if they were let go. The animosity between them stank of rot and alpha stench; if they were let go, they would go right back to fighting. One of them would not survive the fight, and they all knew exactly who the victim would be. Reven wouldn’t survive, but what good would that do? They lose a boy about to become a Witcher, nearly ready for the Path, and nothing would be solved.

Geralt couldn’t just kill everyone who had the nerve to brag about fucking Eskel. Not without getting himself in trouble and still solving nothing. There would always be someone else in line; Geralt couldn’t kill every Witcher in the keep. It was a ludicrous idea, even if he might decide to try it. It wouldn’t matter; either he would die and Eskel would lose his one protector in the keep, or the unimaginable would happen and Eskel would be the one to get that punishment.

The whole thing was sickening, and Geralt wasn’t helping it. Too volatile, still. Would never be anything _but_ volatile as long as his omega was in danger, and that wasn’t going anywhere.

When they reached Rennes, both Geralt and Reven were simply tossed onto the floor. Here, they didn’t even dare move from that spot. The moment they did, they were both fucked over and dead. It was better to just stay there, on their knees with their heads bowed. Rennes had, of course, been waiting for them. It was hard not to be aware of the havoc they caused, especially not when it was right out in the yards where everyone could see them. This was just the first time it’d ever been so dangerous.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Rennes growled. His anger seemed directed at Geralt alone, as that’s where his gaze landed. On Geralt. A gaze hard enough to make Geralt submit and shake, like he was afraid.

“I lost control of myself,” Geralt muttered. “Reven—he—” Geralt breathed, finding the strength to raise his head. He raised his voice, too, as the panic took over him, again. “He was threatening Eskel! Maybe I can’t do anything, but Eskel is still _my_ omega! I couldn’t listen to that!” Geralt pushed himself up to his feet, and Rennes stayed Osbert’s call to action with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Rennes, Vesemir, and Barmin had all been in the midst of a discussion before this happened, and now they were all audience members to Geralt’s newest outburst. Screaming at Rennes like he thought Rennes might hear his plight, understand, and care.

“Said he was going to go _back_! Doesn’t Eskel at least get a break?” Geralt shouted.

Rennes just raised an eyebrow. “And why shouldn’t he go back?” He asked, stepping right up to Geralt. It was right then that Geralt realized the problem with his situation—Rennes and Reven were not so different; Reven was not in trouble. He was here as the victim, not an accomplice. “We must be diligent to ensure that something takes, do you not understand that?”

Geralt swallowed.

“I might have considered otherwise, but you can’t seem to keep yourself in line, Geralt. I’ve tried to be accommodating, and I’ve tried to be _nice_. You just don’t seem to get it—the fact that he’s your omega doesn’t matter to anyone here in Kaer Morhen. It matters least of all to me. Your little childhood bond might matter somewhere else, but in here, that omega has a higher purpose.

“The mages are telling me that, so far, that omega’s brat is not only normal, but strong. It could become one of the best Witchers we’ve ever seen, and we need that _desperately_ , do you understand? If _your_ omega can give us that, then it should. And you should sit to the side and let it happen. Any alpha that gets sent in there is doing their duty to this keep, and your duty is to stay the fuck out of the way.”

Geralt gritted his teeth together and said nothing. This was a fight he wouldn’t win, and the more he tried, the bigger his loss.

Rennes leaned down enough that he could whisper right into Geralt’s ear, then. “It’s just an omega,” came the whisper. “It’ll enjoy anything we do to it.”

Geralt gripped his hands into fists but said nothing. Did nothing. This wasn’t about _babies._ If it were about babies and only babies, there would be order, order better achieved by placating the one who was currently breaking it apart. The fastest way to get Geralt to sit down and shut up was let him back in there with _his_ omega, but that wasn’t an option. Rennes called it justice, called it a punishment for poor behavior, but Geralt knew better. He was learning to know better.

Rennes didn’t see Eskel as a person. He saw an omega. A breeding factory. A _whore_. This had nothing to do with the fact that Emiel was a strong child and the chances were high that any other children Eskel bore would be strong, all the same. It had only to do with the fact that Rennes himself might have been itching for an excuse to go down and _visit_ Kaer Morhen’s only omega. And Geralt was just going to have to get over it.

Geralt’s behavior was nothing more than a scapegoat for things with a predisposition, but he didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that; he was young, a child without a clue in the world how to deal with the situation he’d been put into. When Rennes told him it was his fault, Geralt believed it. It was a horrid, isolating feeling, and somehow worse than Rennes’ next order that Geralt be flogged again in the yard. Left through the cold. Geralt didn’t care. He’d take whatever they could throw at him, as long as they stopped throwing things at Eskel.

“Reven,” Rennes addressed him, now. “You are free to return to your training. When the omega is ready for you, you will return to that, as well.”

Geralt felt sick. He could feel Reven’s smirk, and he hated it. He hated all of it. He hated how Rennes’ next decree was that, as long as Eskel got pregnant at the end of the day, he didn’t care what else happened. Whatever person in Kaer Morhen wanted a taste now need only ask; everyone deserved a bit of comfort, and Rennes would deny no Witcher their necessary morale. Eskel was an omega, and omegas were designed to be _used_. He would never leave that room again, and he’d have only Geralt to thank.

If Geralt interfered, he would be beaten. If Geralt attempted to visit, he’d be beaten. If Geralt was caught so much as even attempting an attempt, he would be beaten. And the same went for any thought for Emiel—Geralt would be beaten. It was best if he returned to be a Witcher boy with no attachments but to his studies and his training. They were weeks away from seventeen; a year later, they would undergo the Dreams, and Geralt’s pesky _feelings_ wouldn’t be a problem.

After that, he was taken away under Rennes’ flogging order. All who remained in the room after were Rennes, Vesemir, and Barmin. Just as it’d been before. But their topic of conversation was all but gone, and dreadfully less important than what had just taken place. Barmin’s complacency was one thing, and it was one thing that Vesemir wouldn’t stand for or follow. He approached Rennes without second thought, because Rennes could not hurt him in the way he could hurt Geralt.

“What is wrong with you?” Vesemir hissed.

“You have a problem?” Rennes raised an eyebrow, folding his hands behind his back. “The pass is nearly thawed, this time of year, so Witchers will be leaving. I think it’s only fair they have what they no doubt want before they go. Besides, think of the coin to be had. Why waste money on unsatisfactory whores when they know they’ve got something twice as good waiting for them here, hm?”

“He’s a _boy_ ,” Vesemir spat. “You seem to have forgotten that.”

“It’s an omega,” Rennes spat, disgust in his voice. “I don’t care if it’s twelve or one-hundred. As long as it has a cunt, it has a purpose to be fulfilled.”

“And do you intend to fulfill it?”

Rennes snorted. “Is that what this is? Are you angry, Vesemir, that you weren’t the first one I offered it to?” Rennes dug into his pocket and produced a brass key, one that he shoved right to Vesemir’s chest. “For you,” he said. “I can always have more made. Visit it whenever you like, if it’ll make you happy. I know an old man like you has a hard time with it. Maybe a young tight cunt is just what you need.”

Vesemir swallowed his growl, and he swallowed his anger. He took the key and allowed Rennes to think whatever he wanted. A key was something he could work with, and it was an outcome he hadn’t expected to achieve. Maybe he couldn’t free Eskel without instantly damning himself, but he could make sure they didn’t intend to let him die in that room. As long as there was still a chance he would see the other side of the doors, one day, death was not a kinder option. Eskel just had to endure.

Geralt was whipped in the yard for anyone to watch. Fifty lashes, this time. Some of them would scar, others would just sting, but Geralt didn’t care. He may have retched; he may have passed out. He didn’t know. All he knew was that, after the fifth strike, he felt nothing. He was nothing. His hands squeezed to fists, and he went somewhere else for the remaining forty-five. Somewhere kind and quiet where he could hear the rushing of water and Emiel’s laugher as he played in the tall grasses near their cottage in the forest. He could kiss Eskel goodnight, kiss him awake. Make him happy.

Somewhere amid the dream, the lashes stopped. Geralt didn’t come back until he felt the sting of salve against his wounds, applied liberally and angrily. He blinked himself awake, eyes still fogged and slightly dark from how long and how tightly they’d been closed, but Geralt was back in the real world. He could feel no pain, save for another slap of someone’s hand against his back. More salve. It stung, and Geralt shifted on his knees where he could not speak the discomfort.

“I hate you,” Gweld’s voice came from behind him. “I hate you so much, Geralt. You are fucking with _everything_ , and I get it. I get it, because it has to suck, but it’s just—” Gweld sucked in a deep breath and slapped on more salve. Geralt flinched.

“They already sent Reven back,” Gweld said. “That fucking mage went with him—Noel, is his name? I don’t fucking know. They were talking about inducing another heat, but he had _two_ potions, this time. Reven made sure to announce the thing fucking loud and clear.”

One potion would induce Eskel’s next heat, and the other would essentially just make him high. He’d be pliable, suggestible, _easy_. It was a solution where the simple use of Axii was not, because Eskel had always been particularly skilled in that area. It meant his resistance was stronger. Even if he were starved and neglected, he might be able to break out of Axii’s control on pure will alone. He could not escape a physical effect of the potion, one that could be applied liberally.

“They would have done this eventually, but _fuck_ ,” Gweld spat. “Just—you have to fucking stop, Geralt, or they’re going to end up killing him. Don’t you see that? The best thing you can fucking do right now is keep your head down—”

“Can’t leave them,” Geralt muttered. The next slap of salve hurt worse than the rest, and Geralt could have sworn Gweld was crying.

“Is it worth it to see them _dead_?” Gweld snapped. “He’s my friend, too, Geralt! I’d go to the fucking ends of the world, for him, but there’s no point if he’s dead!”

Geralt swallowed.

“ _Please_ , just,” Gweld sighed. “I know I can’t stop you. It’s got to be some fucking alpha thing, right? I can’t imagine that’s easy to control, but you have to _try_. As long as you’re the one getting hurt, then do whatever the fuck you want. But don’t let Eskel get hurt.”

“I’ll protect him,” Geralt muttered. “Get him out of here.”

“You do just fucking that,” Gweld said. “I’ll be there when you do.”

Gweld finished putting salve on Geralt’s back before he finally untied Geralt. By some ironic order, Gweld was suddenly Geralt’s keeper. They were friends, so it would be easy for Gweld to keep an eye on him, but that didn’t mean Gweld enjoyed this. He hated to know what was happening to Geralt almost as much as he hated to know what was happening to Eskel. He hated that he had to be the one to untie Geralt from this post and drag him off his knees. Geralt could barely stand.

They hobbled slowly back to the barracks, where Gweld dropped Geralt on his stomach on the bottom bunk. Eskel’s bed, if everything hadn’t all gone entirely to shit. It didn’t smell like him anymore, but still, Geralt pressed his face into the pillows like he was searching for that familiar smell. It would be the only thing to comfort him or soothe him, and it just wasn’t there. Eskel hadn’t been in these barracks for nearly a year; Geralt would find no trace of him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: injury, drugging, pregnancy

Any Witcher who had a penchant for a good _release_ before going back on the Path could find it. It hardly took a question, just someone with a key to Eskel’s chamber. His prison. Geralt couldn’t keep them all away, but he’d certainly tried. It’d landed him heaving in the snow more often than it hadn’t, and once, he was too weak to get up and _move_. He laid right there, cold and bleeding, listening to Eskel’s screams through the wooden door. It hadn’t stopped him from trying. He would do anything to keep these men out of Eskel’s room.

And he took all the punishment, so it was fine. As long as he was the one being hurt, then he could keep doing it. And he did. Right until the pass was finally clear enough for the Witchers to head back out on the Path, and they did. Anyone who’d wanted a taste of Eskel, at that point, had gotten it. Geralt’s attempts meant nothing, but he still tried. It was all he could do—try. If he gave up, he’d rather it be because he was dead and could try no longer. As long as he breathed, he would try to keep Eskel safe.

At the very least, it had always meant they went in tired. It might have meant something. For the rest of his time, Geralt did the only other thing he could do. He trained harder. He studied longer. He trained again. Studied again. He’d gone from just trying to recite the passages from memory to writing them from memory. He trained with heavier swords just to ensure he was strong, even if his true swords were light and easy to wield. He trained with every weapon he could think to and learned how to load a crossbow nearly as fast as he could ready a bow and arrow.

Training was all that he had; it kept him distracted from just how much training Reven got to miss. Thinking about where Reven was, what he was doing, served no purpose other than to make Geralt angry. Anger wasn’t going to help Eskel, and it wasn’t going to help him. He could only train harder. But Reven always found a way, when he was there, to get under Geralt’s skin.

Reven came back to training, that day, which was a rare sight. Inducing Eskel’s heat had worked so well, they hadn’t stopped doing it. As far as Geralt knew, Eskel had been under one continuous heat since Reven had first visited him at the beginning of February. It was March, now, nearly April. Reven still wasn’t the _only_ one visiting Eskel, but the younger boys couldn’t do so much damage. Not yet, but they were certainly getting a taste for it.

“And I’m back!” Reven cheered, raising up his arms. “Who missed me?”

Of course, no one replied. Vesemir just snapped at him to pick up a sword. Reven did just that, twirling it in his hand as he approached Geralt. There was no one else he’d rather talk to more.

“They did a little check-up today,” Reven said. “Just finished fucking him raw when they came in.”

Geralt grimaced, but he wasn’t going to respond. He wasn’t going to play into this.

“Do you want to hear something _exciting_?” Reven asked, stepping up nice and close. “Turns out, your little pup liked me so much he went and got pregnant.”

“What?”

“Oh, that’s right. I knocked your bitch up, Geralt.” Reven laughed. “I wouldn’t _care_ , but the look on your face right now. Makes it all worth it. Best news?” Reven scoffed, smirked. “Baby production may be closed down for business, but the fun does not have to stop.”

Geralt nearly raised his sword, right there. He had the advantage; Reven wouldn’t see it coming. He could do Reven a favor and separate that obnoxious head from his shoulders and be done with it.

“Geralt!” Vesemir shouted.

Reven laughed. “Daddy’s calling.”

Geralt ignored him and sheathed his sword, then walked to where Vesemir had been standing and observing. Vesemir’s arms were folded, and he looked a bit cross. Geralt couldn’t figure for what, since nothing had actually happened. No one told him he couldn’t fantasize about killing Reven, just that he couldn’t actually do it.

“What did he say to you?”

Geralt frowned. “That Eskel’s pregnant. Again. With _his_ baby.”

“And you’re going to do nothing about it. He can talk all he wants—”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Geralt barked. Vesemir frowned but said nothing. “If I could just _see_ Eskel—”

“Like if you could just see your son?” Vesemir raised an eyebrow. “Nobody else has to know what you’re doing, but if you think for a second you could get it passed me, you’ve gone stupid in the head, pup.”

Geralt sighed and deflated.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I just need you to get through training today, then I’ll come and meet you before the meal this evening.”

“Wait, why?” Geralt looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“I think you have every right to see your child, Geralt. I’m not going to out your secret.” He didn’t voice the last part, and instead just showed Geralt the key hanging from around his neck, hidden beneath his clothes and armor while his medallion was out and visible.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. He didn’t know why Vesemir had that key or what he’d done to get it, but he trusted Vesemir with his life. Vesemir cared for him, and he cared for Eskel. He was never soft on them, but that wasn’t going to suddenly turn into cruelty. Vesemir wouldn’t hurt Eskel the way half the other Witchers in the keep seemed to be and enjoying it.

As Geralt returned to training, it took all of his strength to ignore Reven’s jeering. Reven didn’t deserve a response; he wasn’t worth Geralt’s time or energy. They just had to spar together; they didn’t have to engage. Reven could shout at him whatever he wanted, and Geralt would just simply not here him. He was too busy focusing on the evening. It sounded so much like Vesemir was offering him a way to _see_ Eskel, and that was enough to keep him in line.

He hadn’t seen Eskel in months. Six of them, maybe seven. Geralt wasn’t keeping count, because keeping count just hurt. But he knew it’d been long enough that he couldn’t smell Eskel, anymore. Could hardly remember what his skin felt like. All that remained was the sound of his voice and the memories. Geralt would give anything to have the rest back, even if that meant biting his tongue and listening to Reven’s posturing.

Through the whole of training, Geralt had to listen to Reven boast and brag about what he’d done to Eskel. But he ignored it. He ignored it and trained, ignored it and trained. When the training was done, he escaped from it. The sun was beginning to fall, and he had to meet Vesemir for something that would surely spell trouble for them both if they were caught.

Gweld through his arm around Geralt’s shoulder before he could run off. “I say tonight’s as good as any to try and sneak some ale back to the barracks,” he said. “I hear some of the younger boys are trying to get their hands on some white gull, too.”

“Later,” Geralt said. “I have to talk with Vesemir.”

“Yeah? Old man chew you out again?”

“Something like that,” Geralt lied. In a show of sympathy, Gardis patted his back.

“We’ll save you some food, then,” Gardis said.

Geralt thanked them and ran off. He didn’t know where exactly Vesemir had intended to meet him, but he went straight for Eskel’s prison on instinct. His chest had swelled just at the thought of getting to see Eskel. His Eskel. He couldn’t wait to hold him, pull him against his chest, and kiss him. Anything. Everything. He’d missed Eskel so badly. Being able to see him now was about the greatest thing Geralt could imagine, and Vesemir was right there waiting at the door.

Geralt bounded across the yard and over to the door, where Vesemir was waiting. Vesemir already had the key in hand, but he hadn’t quite unlocked the door. There was an anxious air between them; neither one of them had actually seen Eskel since everything begun. Neither one of them knew what was behind this door, and if that thought was enough to shake a man like Vesemir, then Geralt didn’t know how he’d handle this.

“I have to be in there with you,” Vesemir said. “Rennes gave me this key expecting I might—” he stopped short and just shook his head. “If they see me just standing guard, they’ll know something is wrong. You’ll have plenty of time to do whatever it is you need to, though.”

Geralt frowned. “If you think I’m here just so I can fuck him—”

“I did not say that,” Vesemir snapped back. “Keep your wits about you, boy. You have a long way to go before you get to start mouthing off to people.”

“Yes, Master.”

Vesemir unlocked the door. Instantly, the smell hit Geralt. He could tell so _painfully_ that the heat was fake. It didn’t smell right. It didn’t smell like Eskel, nor did pregnant omegas go into heat. This was just the ending of one, the final dredges of it that Reven had refused to stay for. And it stank. The whole room smelled of distress and fear and pain. Geralt was almost afraid to walk in, but he had to. Vesemir went in first, seemingly unbothered by the stench, and Geralt followed. The door was closed and locked, again.

Geralt didn’t wait for a fanfare. He ran across the room and took it all in at just a glance. Eskel was naked. He was naked and absolutely covered in bleeding, raw bite marks. In old ones. Ones that were still healing, and ones that would scar. Ones that would disappear. From his neck, his chest and his back, to his thighs and his calves. He was covered in them. They varied in size, in purpling, and in depth. But they were there. The very sight of it made Geralt sick, but by the gods, he ignored it.

He ignored how Eskel’s face was swollen, how his eyes and his neck were black and blue. He ignored the hand-shaped bruises, the welts and the wounds. Had to ignore everything; it was the only way he would get through this. He was here to see Eskel, to maybe even offer him a moment’s comfort. Bringing absolutely any attention to the way that he looked or what he’d endured would defeat the purpose. Geralt just sat right on the edge of the bed.

Vesemir only approached to help loosen the bonds; he had no key to remove the shackles, but he could allow Eskel’s arms to rest down on the bed instead of being pulled up so tight. They might have thought to hear some response from Eskel, comfort or release, but Eskel whimpered like he was in pain. He jolted before his eyes had even opened, trying to get away from the sudden warmth on his right. That was when Vesemir stepped away, and Geralt made the decision to touch Eskel.

It was the only way. He grabbed Eskel’s face, softly, and kept him from going anywhere. The way Eskel instantly stilled, hands so close to his neck, made Geralt feel sick all over again. But he ignored it int he way he ignored everything else. All he could manage was to stroke the crests of Eskel’s cheeks with his thumbs, shushing him.

“Eskel, Eskel, it’s me,” Geralt whispered. “It’s Geralt.”

Eskel’s eyes opened slowly, fluttering with grogginess. With something else. Geralt could smell the strange potion; it made Eskel light-headed and pliable. Coupled with what had happened, it was probably necessary. It made it hurt worse when he took an alpha that wasn’t his.

“Geralt—” he croaked, and Geralt shushed him again.

“I’m here,” Geralt continued. “I’m here. You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Emiel…?” Eskel managed to say.

“He’s fine. He’s more than fine, Eskel. He’s the most beautiful little boy.” Geralt stroked Eskel’s hair back. “He looks so much like you.”

Eskel sniffed and opened his eyes a little farther. It seemed exactly the sort of thing he would do if he were about to smile with unchecked love, fondness, but there came no smile. Geralt’s heart nearly shattered, right there. Eskel’s eyes looked so fogged, so dead. Like he wasn’t actually here, in his own body, but somewhere else where things hurt less. Geralt couldn’t imagine the ache Eskel must have endured, could still be enduring. The wounds he was covered in were terrifying enough.

Geralt leaned down, slowly, at first, but moved quickly when Eskel tilted his head to the side. It was clear acceptance, submission. Geralt pressed his face into the side of Eskel’s neck and smelled him. Beneath all of the stench and the hurt, Eskel was still there. Orange blossoms, leather, and the smallest hint of pine. Eskel shifted, too, to press his face into Geralt’s hair and do the same. Smell him. Remember him and his scent and everything wonderful that it all had brought.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel rasped. “I—”

“No,” Geralt said, quiet but rough, “you don’t _ever_ apologize for this.” He pulled back to take Eskel’s face in his hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Eskel.”

Eskel’s eyes closed again, and he leaned into Geralt’s hand, nuzzling almost. “I’m pregnant,” he muttered, right to Geralt’s palm.

“I know you are.”

“It’s not yours.”

“I know, Eskel, I know. It’s alright.”

Eskel shook his head, but the pain shot straight through from his neck to his toes, and he cried out. Geralt shushed him, again, stroking the side of his face and petting back into his hair. He leaned down and, slowly, pressed his lips against Eskel’s forehead. He was almost afraid to kiss him; Eskel’s lips were swollen, partially red but mostly purple. There was a healing bite wound right at the corner of his mouth. There was a rawness to his bottom lip, too, that said he’d been biting it. Chewing it to the point that it bled.

“I love you,” Geralt whispered. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Eskel hummed, though it sounded more like a whimper. His voice hardly worked; he was tired, weak. At least he looked like he was being fed and given water, but that was only going to do so much. He wasn’t being given any time to recover.

“Geralt,” Eskel muttered, “I need—there’s—” Geralt shushed him, and he swallowed. “In my stuff,” he said. “In the cloak. I—stole a shirt from you so long ago. I—can I have it? Somehow?”

Geralt nodded. “I’ll get it for you.”

“There’s a medallion, too.” Eskel’s voice broke. “Aubrey’s.”

“Do you want that, too?”

Eskel shook his head. “Emiel,” he said. “Give it to Emiel. Please. If you can.”

Geralt nodded. “I will. I’ll find a way.”

He pulled Eskel against him, then, just holding him. It was all he wanted to do. Having Eskel’s weight back in his arms was comforting, soothing. His smell was there, lingering wherever it was he went to avoid how painful things were. Eskel pressed against his chest, but the press was weak. Geralt just held him there.

Vesemir leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Part of him felt a bit sore about watching this moment, like they deserved some privacy, but the other part ached nearly as much as they did. They were all left with the singular problem of, even if they could get Eskel out of here, where would he go? The outside world would be no kinder to an omega than they were. At best, he’d manage to defend himself, which was just another way to say a condemnation to a life of isolation and solitude. Maybe a lesser evil, but he had to survive to get there, first. He may as well just end up in a brothel.

When Geralt pulled away, Eskel tried to grab at him. His grip was impossibly weak, but Geralt let it drag him down.

“I’m cold,” Eskel whispered, their lips brushing as he spoke. Geralt closed the rest of the distance, kissing him. It was such a soft, chaste kiss. Eskel whimpered into it, like he might cry. It’d been so long since someone had touched him kindly, longer since he’d seen Geralt. Pulling away was almost too much.

“I’m going to get you out of this.” Geralt’s voice was so quiet he scarcely thought that Eskel could hear him. But Eskel heard him.

“Emiel,” he said, opening his eyes again. “If you have to choose—” Eskel’s voice broke, and with it, Geralt felt his heart shatter. “Don’t get yourself killed for me,” Eskel muttered. “We have—our _son_.”

Geralt nodded, but he said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak in that moment without crying. Eskel would choose to stay right where he was, chained and naked to a bed, if that’s what it took to ensure that Emiel was safe. Geralt didn’t blame him, either. It was such a parent’s way to think; their son was more important than either of them. Always would be. As much as it hurt to think of what he might be agreeing to, he had to agree.

For a long moment, they just rested against each other, foreheads pressed together, and eyes closed. Eskel had lost whatever grip strength he had, but Geralt held his hand for as long as he could. Neither one of them moved. Not until Eskel’s breathing was starting to labor, and then, Geralt rested him down against the pillows.

“You rest, now,” Geralt told him, kissing his forehead once again. “I’ll keep Emiel safe. I promise.”

Eskel nodded. He was shivering, tired. He was everything all at once, but thankfully, too tired to think of the next time his doors would open. He never knew what would happen, only that it would be unpleasant. Knowing, at least, that he needn’t spend his meager strength fretting about Geralt and his son, helped Eskel find a bit of peace.

When Geralt pulled away entirely, Eskel was asleep. Geralt made sure to grab the blanket, bunched up at the end of the bed, and pull it over him. Only then did he finally get up, though his knees wobbled a bit. It was going to hurt to have to leave this room, to leave Eskel to his fate, but he had to.

“I scarcely think he’s gotten a moment’s sleep in months,” Vesemir said, rather sadly. “I don’t believe he’ll remember much of this, either.”

“When can I see him, next?” Geralt asked, his voice suddenly hard. He’d steeled himself.

“As soon as I’m able, pup. Too much, and we get caught.”

Geralt nodded. He didn’t have to like it, but he did have to accept it. Too often would be bad, as much as Geralt wanted to spend every waking moment by Eskel’s side. He offered what comfort he could, then left through the door when Vesemir ushered him out.

Come night, when they were supposed to be settling down to get some rest, Geralt dug the trunk out from beneath the bottom bunk and opened it. This was where he’d stored all of Eskel’s things, and none of his things were taken when he was. It was all still right here, neatly packed away. They hadn’t paid much mind to Eskel’s comfort, but they also hadn’t paid mind to removing his existence from the keep, either. Geralt still had everything. His clothes. His boots.

He’d left it all alone. It was too much to look at. Even now, palming through Eskel’s clothes felt a bit more personal than it otherwise should have. These were Eskel’s things, and it didn’t feel right to go through them like this. Opening the chest and touching everything just diminished whatever was left of Eskel’s scent, which was nearly nothing, already. Like Eskel was dead and it was time to go through his affects, Geralt sifted through everything looking for that something specific.

He found the cloak at the bottom of the chest; the forktail cloak that Aubrey had wanted to give him. Geralt pulled that out, then carefully replaced everything in the chest right where it had been. He might ask, next time he saw Eskel, if he could take his shirts. Not because he needed the extra clothes, but because being apart was so dreadfully difficult.

After the chest was pushed back under the bed, Geralt laid the forktail cloak out on the bottom bunk. He unfolded it carefully, like too much too soon would have the whole thing fall apart. It was a sturdy cloak, so the care was unnecessary, but Geralt employed it anyway. Hidden within the folds of the cloak were exactly what Eskel said Geralt would find—the shirt that he lost years ago and a Wolf medallion. Geralt gulped and picked up his own shirt, first, pressing it to his nose.

It smelled like dust and nothing. Immediately, Geralt pulled off his own shirt and replaced it with this one. If he could sleep in it, then keep it tucked away in his own pillow at night, it would smell like him. Then, he could give it to Eskel. The medallion was a different story, altogether. That, Geralt scooped off the cloak carefully and held it in his hands for a long moment, staring at it.

He would have one, soon. Just like this one. In a year, he would undergo the Trial of the Dreams. Then, he would prove his knowledge in the Trial of the Mountain. And then—he would have to leave Kaer Morhen, wouldn’t he? He’d be an official Witcher and be sent out on the Path with the rest of them when the pass thawed out with the end of winter. He’d have to _leave_ Eskel, and what would they do to him then? That was almost too much to bear, so Geralt pushed the thought from his mind. He had three years before then; plenty of time.

Geralt hung the medallion around his neck. He’d hide it beneath his armor, beneath his clothes, for as long as he needed to. It might take weeks before he could find a chance to slip away and give this to Emiel, which dredged up the question of just what an infant wasn’t going to do with this medallion, but Eskel wanted him to have it. So, he would have it. Geralt just had to find the time to get it to him.

He didn’t bother pulling himself up into his own bunk; it wouldn’t be long before a new boy was shoved in here, now that they had the empty bed. Geralt could give up his top bunk if it meant no one else got to have Eskel’s bed. He left the cloak right where it was, too, and used it as a blanket instead of the actual one he had. It was warmer than the blanket, and it was Eskel’s. He hoped to be able to see Eskel in it one day, too.

It was April. Geralt struck swords with Gweld out in the yard, Gardis had gone to fetch some water, and Reven was nowhere to be found. It had become easier to deal with Reven’s absence, even knowing precisely where he was. He would miss out on training and therefore sooner die out on the Path; Geralt would outlive him for years to come. That was plenty revenge, and plenty payment for every little thing he did. He would die, ripped apart by some striga on a mountaintop, and that would be just fine.

Geralt missed the parry, and Gweld struck him across the chest with the blunt of his sword. A quick-handed change prevented it from being the sharp, affectively wounding Geralt. Gweld broke out into a fit of laughter, stepping back and wiping his sword out on his leather gauntlet as if he had just struck a deadly blow and needed to remove the blood. It was just a practiced motion, and he didn’t think twice about doing it.

“You’re off somewhere else, again,” Gweld accused. “What are you thinking about?”

“Eskel.”

Gweld sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “Right. Guess it wouldn’t be right to mock you about it, then.” Geralt snorted. “Want to work on signs?” Gweld asked, shrugging. “Oh, you could throw some of those training bombs at me until you’re not messed up, anymore.”

“Signs?” Geralt suggested. “I need to improve on those.”

“What’s your worst one?”

“Axii.”

“Fuck me,” Gweld muttered. Geralt smirked and shook his head. “Alright, well. We can’t all be so fucking perfect at that shit like Eskel was, huh? So,” Gweld raised his fist up like he was toasting a glass, “to Eskel. Let’s all be fucking perfect.”

That made Geralt smile. Eskel hadn’t been perfect, but he’d been good at this. A natural. Geralt wasn’t half-bad, himself, but he had to work on it. He remembered the first time Eskel had produced a sign, and the look on his face. His smile had been so wide, his eyes so _big_. Geralt swore that must have been when he fell in love. Eskel had been so _happy_ , and Geralt missed that smile more than anything.

Neither one of them sheathed their swords. It would be a true battle, or as true a battle as they could simulate between the two of them. The rules were set forth as such: no actual damage to be caused, and the only sign allowed was Axii. They already had a natural resistance to it, so there was an unspoken promise not to _lie_ if they felt the effects but were strong enough to push past them. The point was to get better with it, and if the one who cast it didn’t know it’d hit, they wouldn’t learn.

Geralt struck first, on quick feet, with the swipe of his sword. Gweld parried, jumping back. He made the sign, and Geralt was swift to end it with the blunt of his sword. Gweld stumbled, then recoiled and struck with his own sword. Metal clanged between them as each looked for an opening. They moved back and forth, trading high ground and trading advantage in the battle. Geralt’s power was in the strength of his blow, but Gweld was smaller. Faster.

He dropped down to the ground in a roll, signed on his knee, and jumped right back up to meet the edge of Geralt’s sword to keep from losing his head.

“Fuck,” Geralt growled, shaking his head. “I hate how that fucking feels.”

Gweld smirked. “Gotta be faster, you big fucking oaf.”

Geralt pushed off, sending Gweld back to the ground. Gweld was quick to stand again, quick to parry, and quick to strike. His strike was blocked and blocked again. Geralt moved quicker, now, and struck with less strength in his blows. Always from the wrist. He pushed with his heels when his stance was hard and pushed with the balls of his feet to move quickly. He barely managed to dodge a slice through the air, but he turned back, tilting on his heel and spinning until he was behind Gweld. When Gweld turned, he was met with the sign of Axii.

“Point for Geralt,” Gweld grumbled, rubbing his face. It really did feel weird. It didn’t affect them the way it would affect a monster or a human. They would be struck low whereas a Witcher had no trouble brushing the whole thing off.

They clashed together. Again, and again. Sign after sign thrown in whatever direction; it turned quickly into a casting match. Who could cast the quickest, the cleanest. Did it hit; did they miss? They struck again and again, the clang of metal and the sound of grunting, of exhaustion dripping off their noses in sweat.

They stopped, instantly, at the sudden shout of Geralt’s name. Their swords clashed once more, and they froze, metal on metal and both looking towards the shout. Gardis had come back, and he did not have any water with him. He was, rather, running through the grass like he’d just seen something awful. But that wasn’t right. There was panic in the way he moved, but his face was bright with something. Alive.

“Geralt!” Gardis shouted, finally coming to a stop. He doubled over on his knees, panting and trying to catch his breath. That was the moment Geralt and Gweld needed to sheath their swords. Gweld offered Geralt a job well-done pat to the shoulder, and his hand did not go away. His fingers just squeezed.

“They’re—” Gardis sucked in a breath, straightening up. “It must be time for the Grasses, again,” he said. “They’re moving those fucked tables back into the laboratory.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and exchanged a strange glance with Gweld. “What does that have to do with us?”

“I saw them moving Emiel—at least, I think it was Emiel. I haven’t heard of any new babies in the keep, but—”

Geralt pushed forward. “You saw Emiel?” He nearly shouted.

“They were moving him into one of the side rooms that doesn’t get used much. They had a weird pump thing with him. Fuck.” Gardis scratched the side of his head. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but I’m pretty sure it was full of milk? I don’t think they’ve got much intention of keeping an eye on him while they go through the Grasses. How much fucking trouble can a baby get into?”

Geralt’s eyes widened. This was his chance. It wasn’t just his chance to pass on this medallion, but it was his chance to really get to _see_ Emiel. He’d seen Emiel only thrice since he was born, and the last time had gotten him caught, bound, and whipped again. He could hardly feel the whips on his back, anymore. Though, he still screamed and grunted when he remembered to, unwilling to let them know the feeling was all but gone for fear they might turn him around and whip his chest, instead.

“When are they starting the Grasses?” Geralt asked.

“I suspect tomorrow,” Gardis informed. “We’re still on this fucking independent training thing while they are. Apparently, it’s all fucking instructors required. Mages, too. Big class, this time.”

Gweld swallowed, then. “How many you think will die?”

Gardis shook his head. “Most of them. None of the boys last year survived. That’s why we don’t have a new roommate, yet.” Then, Gardis looked at Geralt. “Geralt, I know you can’t exactly be expecting to just fucking take the kid and run, but maybe you could see him? Especially with how long this Trial lasts, I mean, fuck. I wouldn’t put it past these people to just leave Emiel alone, the whole time. Don’t know much about childcare, me, but I know they’re not supposed to be isolated, like that.”

“I have to go see him—”

“Not right now, you big fucking—” Gardis barely stopped Geralt from running off. “Tomorrow, I said!”

Geralt breathed. “Right. Right. Tomorrow.”

“We’ll cover for you, but you best not stay too long, okay? Long enough to tide you over until next year.” Gardis patted Geralt’s chest. “I bet this happens again.”

Geralt calmed himself down, and then fell back into the grass to sit. They could stand to take a break, anyway, as long as it wasn’t too long. Gweld and Gardis plopped down in the dirt with him.

“Do you think they decided he was a year old when spring broke?” Geralt asked.

Gweld and Gardis exchanged a strange look. They all aged in the spring, regardless of how old they were. Some of them had gone back through story and memory to figure out a better idea of how old they really were, but it wasn’t usually an endeavor worth undertaking. Emiel would have the luxury of those around him remembering exactly when he was born. A gift in the first month of the year. Even if they had decided to put him on track with their aging system, everyone knew it wasn’t true.

“What’s it matter?” Gweld finally said. “That just means the faster they put him in the bastion, right?” That caught Geralt’s attention. “Don’t know if it ever dawned on you, you big oaf, but we _do_ see the bastion boys every now and again. Unless they _really_ hate you that much, I mean. Maybe you’ll get to see him once he’s just shoved along with the rest of the kids.”

“Unless he doesn’t know who you are.” Gardis added, and Gweld threw a rock at him for that.

“Would he really not know me?” Geralt asked; Gweld _glared_ at Gardis, after that, and threw another rock. “Wouldn’t he recognize me by scent?”

Gardis shook his head. “Why would he? He doesn’t fucking know what you smell like. And I don’t think he’ll ever figure it out. That’s the whole point of raising your own damn baby, so they know who you are. Even what little time he got to spend with Eskel isn’t going to matter, especially not with the fact that they’ve been fucking storing him in the laboratory like an experiment project.”

“You don’t gotta be an ass about it,” Gweld snapped.

Geralt shook his head and waved his hand at Gweld. “I didn’t know.”

“Best spend what time you can with him. Most you’ll be when he’s a bastion boy is a weirdly friendly Witcher, if you decide you want to chance a relationship. He’s got a _better_ chance at knowing Eskel, the whole growing in the belly thing sorta helps that. But.” Gardis shrugged.

“How do you know all this?” Geralt asked.

“Because I know how to read, and no one else in this goddamn keep seems to have developed the skill. There’s a _few_ books around here that aren’t about monsters.”

“That’s why no one reads them.” Gweld smirked, and that was his turn to be hit in the cheek with a rock.

“Why would we even have a book like that?” Geralt asked.

“Because Kaer Morhen used to have more omegas.” Gardis swallowed that comment right after he said it, and neither Geralt nor Gweld asked for an elaboration. Nobody wanted to hear it, and Gardis wished he didn’t know it. Conversely, he wished he’d known it sooner, but they didn’t have this kind of free access to things when they were younger.

“We should get back to training,” Gweld interjected. “Best we don’t get caught sitting around, or we all get our hides tanned.”

“Right, and that’s Geralt’s new pass-time.” Gardis offered. They could at least all laugh about it. Geralt took a beating better than the rest of them, and he took it for good cause. As long as Geralt was the one getting hurt, and not Eskel, Gweld and Gardis would be there to pick him up off his knees at the end of the day.

They trained for the rest of the day. They ate and they drank like friends were supposed to, and then trained well into the night. They talked of grand adventures and ideals, that the three of them would be the greatest Witchers on the hunt since the dawning of the profession. They wouldn’t travel together, because they’d make less coin that way. They’d split ways at the gates of Kaer Morhen and meet there before winter began, again, to count their coin.

A Witcher made coin to keep himself alive on the Path, but he made coin to bring back to the Wolves, too. If they got to looking at their coin before they got to Kaer Morhen, maybe they could even hide a bit away for special purchases next time they were out on the road. And that was an idea. Geralt fell asleep with that idea on his mind. Hiding away coin. He could hide away enough coin to buy something very special—a house. An escape.

The Trial of the Grasses started in the morning, so Geralt was up before the sun. He took his swords with him to ensure no one questioned where he was, and if they did, Gweld and Gardis would cover the rest. He made sure he had the medallion draped around his neck, and then he was off. It wasn’t the first time he’d risen before the sun, though he often did it to train; no one would question it when they awoke. Not even Reven could question it, though he did often make a show of calling Geralt a brown-nosing try-hard.

Reven was asleep in his bed, and Geralt stopped right at the foot of it. He could kill Reven at any time, but he wouldn’t. Everyone would know who’d struck the blow, so it wasn’t worth it. But he stopped. Reven stank of his horse and of sex, and the lingering scent of orange blossom was a painful reminder of _why_ he stank of sex. Reven wasn’t the only one let through those doors; Geralt had seen them, tried to stop them, and succeeded only with the younger boys. It’d gotten him tanned again and again, and he endured it each time. But Reven was in there more often. Eskel was carrying his _baby_ , and unfortunately, Geralt understood the draw.

If he could have had Eskel to himself while he was pregnant, he scarcely believed they would have had a moment’s rest. There had been something so beautiful about Eskel, then. Geralt would have taken him to bed whenever he had the chance, press his hands against Eskel’s stomach and feel the way their baby moved. But it hadn’t happened, and Reven was, without a doubt, not cherishing this thing that he had. It showed through in the way he stank of sex instead of glowed with it.

Geralt left the barracks. There was never a commotion for the beginning of the Grasses, just a funeral procession. All of the boys knew the potential of the trial. Some of them had resigned themselves to death, while others foolishly believed they would survive, despite the odds. Only a few would make it out. Until then, Geralt could still remember the screams. He still remembered waking up and seeing Eskel on the table covered in his own blood and vomit. It’d been terrifying, but it’d led to something so _beautiful_.

He pushed the memories aside, the thoughts, and moved forward. He took the long way through the keep, avoiding the boys and the instructors, the mages. Gardis had told him just where he’d seen them take Emiel, so that’s where Geralt went. He went quickly. It wasn’t far from the laboratory, but Geralt went through a back entrance where no one would see him. Then, he ensured the door was shut tightly. He moved a large box in front of it to keep it closed.

All that stopped him was the echoing. He could _hear_ Emiel, the light sounds of his obnoxious little baby noises. Geralt hadn’t seen him in so long. Safety came first, though, above all else. He ignored the noise and headed straight for the other door. This was such an unfrequented room that it was dusty and left dark. No one would come in here, and Geralt had no reason to light a torch. First, he’d have to find one, and secondly, the mutations of his eyes allowed him to see just fine.

With the doors shut tightly, Geralt nearly tripped over himself to get to Emiel. He followed the babe’s noise as much as he did just the scent of him, still such a healthy mix of both he and Eskel. Emiel’s scent would never change, though it hurt to realize he may not be able to use it in such a way that he would recognize Geralt in a few years. It didn’t matter, because at the moment, Emiel knew he was there the second he was. Geralt almost wished he had lit something, but neither of them needed it.

Geralt could see. Emiel reached for him, little arms wriggling out in the air. Geralt offered his hand and nothing more, which Emiel latched onto with all his great baby’s strength and pulled Geralt’s hand down against him. The moment lasted for a but a second before Emiel’s little face scrunched up and he began to cry.

“Oh, hey now,” Geralt muttered. “What is the problem?”

Emiel just cried. He kicked and wailed and flung his arms. Geralt had never _seen_ him throw a fit like this, before, but he wasn’t stupid. He looked to the left of Emiel’s makeshift crib and saw the contraption that Gardis had talked about. It did very much look to be filled with a white liquid. Geralt hesitated, but he leaned over the table to sniff. It was milk. It wasn’t just milk, but it was Eskel’s milk.

“You’re hungry,” Geralt deduced. It was easier to focus on Emiel than it was to think, for even a moment, how this contraption came to be or how it came to be filled with Eskel’s milk. That was something better left entirely forgotten and never once thought of, again. Still, if Emiel was hungry, it was all he was big enough to eat. Geralt didn’t know when babies started to eat real food, anyway.

The contraption had a long hose attached to the side of it, and that hose tapered down to a sort of nozzle. When Geralt held that up, Emiel even seemed to recognize it. And that was that. Geralt tucked the end of the nozzle right between Emiel’s little lips and watched, half in horror and half in awe, as Emiel began to suck down his morning meal.

“This is how they’re feeding you?” Geralt gawked. “Fuck, that’s—” Geralt just started for a moment. Babies would grab anything, and he’d figured that out from how readily Emiel just _grabbed_. He could hold the nozzle himself because he knew how to grab, and they were just letting him. It was awful, but the only way to make it better would be to—

Geralt had never picked Emiel up, before. He’d never held a baby. He’d never held _any_ baby, let alone his own. He looked at his own hands, for a moment. They were so rough, calloused and split from all the work he did day in and day out. Emiel was a baby. He was soft. Delicate. Should he even hold Emiel? Did he have a _right_ to hold his own son? What if he hurt him? Emiel was so small—larger than a normal baby, he’d heard, but in comparison to himself? Emiel was tiny. His skin was so soft, and all of his limbs were just so delicate.

Geralt gulped. He could do this. Eskel had gotten to hold Emiel, right? Eskel had _nursed_ Emiel. If Geralt could swing a sword and go toe-to-toe with other Witchers, he could hold a baby. It wasn’t remotely the same skill set, but he meant to think of it as a way to accept a challenge. He wasn’t afraid of anything, not a whip and not this child. His child.

The nozzle was set back down on the counter, and though Emiel whined—still hungry—he quieted almost immediately when Geralt grabbed him. Slowly, carefully, Geralt lifted Emiel up out of his box-crib to settle him in his arms, instead. Geralt ensured one of the blankets was still tightly wrapped around Emiel, to keep him warm, then leaned back against the table.

“Hey,” Geralt whispered, his voice just a breath. “Wow.”

Emiel was so small in his arms, but a hefty weight, regardless. Very _real_. Not just something he thought about every now and again, but real. Emiel was right there, head in the crook of his elbow and arms moving above him, fingers grabbing and releasing. This was what they’d robbed Geralt of: his chance to be a _father_. Maybe he was only seventeen, and maybe he wouldn’t be a very good one, but he was one. He wanted to try, and they’d taken that from him.

When Emiel started to cry, again, Geralt blindly grabbed for the nozzle. This time, instead of letting Emiel just grab it, Geralt held it for him. Emiel wrapped his little hands around Geralt’s, instead, looking up at him with those big blue eyes.

“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?” Geralt asked. Emiel couldn’t respond, nor would he have, regardless of the nozzle in his mouth. He just sucked down his milk, happy enough to be held there. Geralt was happy enough to hold him. Just to hold him, to have him close.

Eventually, Emiel just pushed at Geralt’s hand to get him to back off, take the nozzle with him. The mages had neglected to gossip about how smart Emiel was, too, but his strength was impressive enough. Geralt would have been impressed to come in here to see Emiel drooling on himself, half-asleep. This was all just so new to him; he didn’t know what to expect. With the nozzle out of the way, though, he hunkered down onto the floor with his legs crossed and Emiel cradled up in his left arm.

With his right, Geralt fished the medallion from beneath his leather armor and unwrapped it from his neck, pulling it over his head and catching it in his hair. He pulled it loose, then dangled it above Emiel. Emiel saw it glinting in what little light streamed through the cracks, and he reached for it with his little grabby fingers.

“That’s right,” Geralt muttered, “this is for you. Your mommy wanted you to have it.” He rested the wolf medallion right on Emiel’s chest, where he could grab it. Almost immediately, Emiel did grab it, and he shoved part of it right into his mouth. Geralt laughed, holding Emiel just a bit closer.

“You be careful with that, sweetheart. That belonged to one of your mommy’s friends.” Geralt settled back against a box that was stored beneath the table. He shifted Emiel up a bit, getting comfortable, then stilled. Emiel didn’t have any teeth, yet, but he was certainly trying his best to chew on the medallion.

“His name was Aubrey,” Geralt said. “He was a Witcher, and he told your mommy a lot of stories.”

Geralt sat there and told Emiel the whole story of Aubrey, everything Eskel had ever told him. From the feast where they’d met, to the times they’d shared, to the very last time Eskel ever saw him. When the story was done, Geralt sat there with Emiel for just a while longer, for as long as he could, holding Emiel against his chest and feeding him when he cried.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: blood/gore, beatings, depictions of violence, disturbing dream sequence, sexual talk

Realizing that Emiel was far easier to see than Eskel took less than a week. The problem was it was also easier to get caught. The mages were on a bit of a routine with Emiel, one that Geralt couldn’t pin down with how little he was around. But he’d seen them come in with instruments just as often as they’d come in with that awful feeding contraption. The instruments had terrified Geralt, because they just looked like things to poke and prod—things that would hurt his son.

He’d nearly killed a mage over, it and not for anything purposeful, but because the man was small and frail. Geralt had just grabbed him and nearly crushed his arm. Geralt had been whipped, then. When they discovered Emiel’s new medallion, Geralt was blamed, rightfully, and whipped again. The medallion wasn’t taking from Emiel, though, and that was worth a thousand beatings. They’d seen how fond Emiel was of just having something to do. He chewed on it, tangled himself in the chain, and had more fun than any baby really ought to.

It kept him from crying, and for that, Mariette did thank Geralt exactly once. But the beatings returned, because they always did.

Geralt was just about throwing himself into them; he’d hide when he could and saw Emiel much more frequently than he might have otherwise if they actually gave the babe any proper supervision, but every now and again Geralt was caught on his way out. Rarely on his way in. When they strapped him down to that flogging pole, Geralt could close his eyes and just go back over the moments where he had Emiel in his arms.

Emiel was getting big. He had, of course, gotten a bit fat. It was funny to see how pudgy his little tummy had gotten, and how round his cheeks. Then, a few weeks passed, and Emiel looked normal again. He just didn’t fit inside of the hastily made crib he’d been in for months, and they had to get him something new. And his medallion was always with him.

When summer rolled around, it was the first time Geralt heard a little _clink_ when Emiel shoved that medallion into his mouth. Geralt had heard his caretakers complaining that he was crying more often than not, and when he wasn’t crying, it was because he was chewing on something. If not for that medallion, they feared he might have begun chewing on his own arm. Now, Geralt understood why. When Emiel opened his mouth, Geralt couldn’t help but rest his fingers on Emiel’s lip to keep it open for just a minute.

“You have a tooth,” Geralt said. He ran his fingertip along Emiel’s gums over to the little protruding tooth, smiling. “You poor thing. I’m sure that hurts.”

Emiel made a strange noise and eventually grabbed Geralt’s hand, bit down on his finger, and then cried when Geralt jerked away.

“So, you bark _and_ bite.” Geralt laughed to himself, quietly. He picked up Emiel’s medallion and let him chew on that, instead.

That time, Geralt didn’t get caught, but on his next visit of some attempt to sneak in a bit of soft food for Emiel to try—surely, if he had a tooth, that meant he was ready to munch on something like that instead of just sucking on milk all day—he was found. Whipped, again, but it wouldn’t stop Geralt from trying. He had a right to his own son.

November came, and Geralt found quickly that it was only _his_ right to his son that had been revoked; it had never been about the logistics of letting a boy grow up with his parents, or at least knowing his father. It had simply been because Rennes didn’t like Geralt, not from the moment he’d shown up in Kaer Morhen. It wasn’t something Geralt could fix, and it certainly wasn’t something he should abuse, but he found himself sitting in a mound of grass just outside Eskel’s prison.

They were supposed to be helping with preparations. Winter was coming, and with that, the Witchers on the Path would be returning. Rooms needed to be stocked, stores needed to be filled. The bastion boys never helped with this, because they were—by name—in the bastion. But once they’d passed the Grasses, this became their new pre-winter pass-time. Setting up the keep for the return of the Witchers. Geralt was supposed to be helping stock the kitchen stores, but Gardis had told him it was fine to run off.

This was something Geralt couldn’t miss. He knew the commotion from the first time it had happened, and it hadn’t happened all that long ago. That was the part that hurt the worst. Emiel had been born at the end of January. Now, it was early November, and another baby would be born. Just like before, there was some great commotion about it to be had, as if no one expected a pregnant omega to give birth and therefore had not prepared for it. Unlike the first time, this baby’s father would be there.

Geralt couldn’t imagine the agony of it all. He couldn’t have imagined what Eskel had gone through to get this far, and then to have to give birth all over again—Geralt knew the screams quite well. It couldn’t have been any more pleasant having Reven’s baby. It might have even been better for Reven not to be there, at all. Geralt couldn’t imagine what horrible things he might be saying, especially when he heard the first scream. Childbirth was no easy task; it may have well been more painful than the Grasses, given the awful sounds Eskel made.

There was a split second where the doors opened, and Geralt could see through the crack. See Eskel. He was covered in sweat, his hair pasted to his face; there were bruises, old and new, coupled with bite marks still all _over_ his body. Geralt gulped, but the doors closed a second later. Reven was walking out, wiping his hands on a rag. He saw Geralt a second later; their eyes met, Reven frowned, and Geralt just shifted from one hand rest to the other, elbow propped on his knee.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Reven sneered. When Geralt didn’t respond, the anger flared through his nostrils and his eyelids. “Come out here to listen to your bitch squeal, then, did you? I’ll tell you,” Reven approached, “I love listening to the screams at the best of times, but that? Bitch is faking it.”

Geralt frowned, then. “Are you going to wonder which of us got the punishment, then? Me, barred from it, or you, allowed to see it?”

Reven snorted. “You must think you’re so fucking funny. I bet it’s just fucking _killing_ you, though.”

It was. Each time he heard Eskel scream, his whole body ached. It was a feeling that Reven couldn’t contend with, as not even the whip, could. Being separated from a bond-mate had been known to _kill_ , in the past, and that was precisely what it felt like. Geralt was so close, and yet he was too far away to do anything. As long as that door was locked to him, he couldn’t do anything that would ever be enough to convince Eskel he hadn’t abandoned him, and he would never be able to stop this ache.

Somehow, being this far apart hurt _less_ than knowing that Eskel was having another alpha’s baby. Babies were babies; no matter what became of it, it would have no fault in the matter. The baby didn’t ask for this, and therefore, it didn’t deserve any scorn or hatred. If Eskel hated the kid, Geralt wouldn’t blame him, but he wouldn’t hate it. He would hate Reven. He would hate Rennes, who’d allowed the whole damn thing. More than anything, though, he just wanted to be at Eskel’s side.

They’d tell him it was his own fault he couldn’t be with Eskel, but he was beginning to learn better. They would have found a reason to keep them apart, one way or another. It wasn’t about the child; it was about the free fuck, at the end of the day, and Geralt’s bond made that more difficult than it would have been with an unmated omega. It wasn’t his fault, but he certainly was a good scapegoat.

“Go away, Reven,” Geralt just sighed.

Reven came closer. “What if I knock him up again, hm? How would that make you feel? I’ve got a few more months left in me before they snip the fun bits away.” Not literally, but the Trial of the Dreams was coming.

“Shut _up_ , Reven.”

“Strike a nerve? Must suck not being daddy, this time. That stupid little bond you have probably really, _really_ makes you want it, huh? Want to be daddy.” Reven laughed. “I just want the fun part. That bitch of yours has got the sweetest fucking cunt, Geralt.” Reven took another step closer. “He’s so _tight._ _”_ Another step. “So fucking wet, too. The noises he makes. Did you fuck him with your knot?” Another step.

Geralt let out a deep, guttural growl and stood.

“He begged for me the other day, Geralt. Begged for me to _stop_ because he was so, so sore.” Reven’s voice turned mocking. “Do you know what he did?”

Geralt couldn’t tell if Reven was lying, but to the gods, he prayed that Reven was lying.

“He let me fuck him up the ass,” Reven snorted. “So desperate to give his poor cunt a break. Can you believe that?”

Geralt tried to breathe, but Reven was smirking at him. So fucking _proud_ of himself as he started to explain it all in gruesome, awful detail. How he had this pregnant omega, ready to pop at any point, up on his knees just _begging_ to have his ass fucked because he was so exhausted, so sore from all of the abuse. Reven wouldn’t call it that, no, because he was so sure that Eskel wanted it. That’s what omegas did, they wanted this. Wanted to be hurt and fucked and used.

And then, Reven just had the nerve to say it. He enjoyed the way Eskel cried, and he always made sure he left Eskel crying. Geralt snapped, then. He didn’t know what came over him, what possessed him to move. All he knew was that, suddenly, his fist was colliding with the side of Reven’s face and sending him crumbling to the ground. Geralt fell after him, straddling Reven’s chest to keep him down, and then punched him again. Again. Again. Until he could feel his own knuckles start to bloody and bleed, until Reven’s nose was no doubt broken again.

Reven surged up the second Geralt stopped, and they were fighting. Rolling in the grass, striking here and there with feet, knees, and fists. There were growls and snarls and shouts, ripping of hair just as much as skin. Reven’s fist connected with Geralt’s face, and his cheekbone practically shattered. He pounded his fists into Reven’s chest. Nothing cracked, but his breath was gone straight from his lungs. Geralt struck him again, only to find Reven’s knee jolted up between his thighs and sending him doubled over on the ground.

Neither one of them was down for long. They were right back up on their feet, grappling and growling and _angry_. Snarling, biting, snapping, clawing. There were shouts in the distance, loud and domineering shouts that neither one of them listened to. Not until they were being forcibly pulled away from each other, and each of them were a bloodied and bruised mess all on their own. It was a disaster, and behind it all, they could still hear the shouts of childbirth.

“He tried to get in there!” Reven shouted, almost instantly, pointing at Geralt. “He was going rabid! You should have seen it!”

“No!” Geralt argued, but Vesemir yanked him back and told him to shut his mouth.

“He was going to kill my baby,” Reven snarled. “Too fucking angry that it’s not _his_ —”

“You shut your mouth, too,” Vesemir snapped. Vesemir had Geralt, and Osbert was holding back Reven. But in the moment, everything calmed. Once they could both be trusted to just stand there on their own, they were released.

“Rennes has to know,” Osbert said.

Vesemir sighed.

“You can’t!” Geralt insisted. “I didn’t—”

“Geralt,” Vesemir snapped. Geralt shut his mouth again, instantly. He glanced back, one abortive gaze towards Eskel’s prison, and sighed. Everything had gone silent, but in lieu of finding out what sort of baby Eskel had just given birth to, they were carted off towards one of the taller towers in the keep.

The two of them stood in that room, with Vesemir as their very angry chaperon while Osbert went back to work, until Rennes could join them. Rennes had been overseeing repair on the southern end of the wall where a sudden frost had broken through a weak spot. Once he’d heard about this, he’d left the work to the others and come straight to it. As he entered, Geralt couldn’t help but feel that this was no judge walking in between them, but his own personal executioner. Reven had gotten out of trouble before. He would do it again.

Geralt steeled himself. He could take another beating. Another whipping. He didn’t care.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rennes asked. “And why in the gods’ names is it always you two?”

“Geralt went fucking feral,” Reven spoke first and quickly. “He tried to break into the chamber, spouting all this crap about how he was going to kill _my_ baby.”

“I did not,” Geralt snapped. “I was just sitting nearby—”

“So, you admit to not being at your task for the day?” Rennes interrupted. Geralt admitted to that, because it was true.

“I wouldn’t hurt Eskel, though,” he continued. “I wouldn’t hurt the baby, either! I just wanted to be there—I wouldn’t _hurt_ him like that. No more than you people already fucking have—”

“That omega is checked upon regularly,” Rennes argued. “There are no broken bones, and no sign of disease. It’s fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. Geralt had seen that Eskel wasn’t fine. Was that how they were going to define being _not_ fine? Broken bones and contracted illness? It made no sense. Witchers couldn’t contract illness; Eskel wouldn’t get sick. Which meant all anyone who visited him had to do was make sure not to purposefully break his bones. What sort of a system was that? They were ignoring the fact that he was bruised and bitten, that he hardly had the strength to keep his eyes open, anymore.

“You are not supposed to interfere with that omega, and you know this. Time and time again, I hear stories of you not only attempting to see that thing—” which wasn’t true; Geralt hadn’t tried to see Eskel at all, “—but also interfering with the mages’ care of the first child.” Also, not true. If anything, Geralt was helping.

“So, whip me again,” Geralt snapped.

“That doesn’t seem to be helping.” Rennes’ voice dropped deep into a growl. Then, he turned to Reven. “You are clearly the wronged party in this matter. Your child was put at risk, so you will be the one to deliver the punishment. Whip him, beat him—rape him, for all I care, but take care of this mess out in the yard where I don’t have to deal with it.”

Geralt gulped. He whirled around, looking to Vesemir. But Vesemir didn’t even move. He couldn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, either; he stood there like a frozen statue, resigned to his own fate and therefore resigning Geralt to his. Vesemir didn’t even _argue_. Geralt’s breath stuttered, caught in his throat. Like he was about to panic. What was Reven going to do to him? He was allowed to do it all—to do anything. And Geralt just. Had to endure it.

He was dragged down to the yard and thrown down to his knees, bound back to that pole. He made sure to thank whatever deity might have been watching him that he wasn’t stripped; Reven didn’t want _that_. But he didn’t take the whip, either. Geralt could have endured another flogging. He could endure them all. Reven didn’t want that, either. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to hurt worse than everything ever had, before. Combine it all, then make it the most unbearable thing in the universe.

The first blow landed to Geralt’s chest. Reven’s heavy boot right into his sternum. He’d been bound loose enough that Reven could hit him _anywhere_ , and Reven made sure to do it. He kicked Geralt in the face, in the neck. The chest. The stomach. He kicked Geralt over onto his side, then landed one particularly hard blow right between his thighs. Geralt cried out, gasping for air. Where was the air? He closed his eyes tightly as Reven’s boot came for his face again, throwing his head back.

When Geralt was on his back, Reven kicked into his ribs, stomped down on his chest. Geralt’s entire body was on fire, and the edges of his vision were blurring. There wasn’t anywhere to go, for this. He didn’t know what to expect, nor what was coming for him. He endured every blow, every strike of a boot or a fist, then endured another. Again. Everything ached, from his head to his toes. He was bleeding from the nose, from the mouth, from the corner of his left eye where Reven had shattered the rest of the side of his face.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had lasted. Five minutes. An hour. All he knew was that it was over, and Reven was dropping down beside him and caressing the side of his face with unchecked softness. It made Geralt flinch, because Reven didn’t know how to be soft. How to be kind. He was the epitome of alpha aggression, and Geralt had just endured every last drop of it. His only consolation was that Reven was panting; the beating had tired him right out.

“Next time,” Reven managed out between breathes, “I’m going to fuck your bitch’s mouth. Do you know how I keep him in line, so easily? He’s not very well behaved, but I’ll tell you a secret, just in case you ever want to get him to _beg_.” Reven grabbed Geralt’s hair and wrenched his head back, making him groan. Reven leaned down to whisper into Geralt’s ear, so closely that his lips brushed over the shell. “I can’t _imagine_ how tight Emiel would be. He’s so fucking little, isn’t it?”

Geralt’s breath picked up, snorting through his nose. He didn’t have the strength to move, but he tried. He struggled, tried, but couldn’t move fast enough for Reven to get away. Laughing. Reven was _laughing_ and wiping his bloodied hands on his breeches.

“Fuck you, Geralt,” he said. Then, he spat right on Geralt’s face. “Someone can come get you in the morning, but I hope you fucking freeze to death, by then.” Reven left, after that, and Geralt just slumped into the ground.

Geralt didn’t go out of his way to see Eskel’s new baby, but he did by proxy on one visit to see Emiel. They were to undergo the Trial of the Dreams in a week’s time, so Geralt wanted to make sure he had something pleasant to dream about. Right next to Emiel’s much larger bed, now that he was officially over a year old, was the second baby in the original makeshift box of blankets. While Emiel was awake, happily laying on his side with his medallion in his hands, this baby was asleep.

There was no questioning that it was Reven’s son. Geralt didn’t know the boy’s name, and he didn’t want to. He had stark blond hair, just like Reven did, and his skin-tone more closely matched with Reven’s than it did with Eskel’s. The baby might as well have been Reven’s miniature copy, and that was a bit sickening. Geralt tried not to look at that baby. It was March. The baby was four months old and growing at mostly the same rate Emiel had. Emiel was a year and three months.

Geralt didn’t hesitate to pick up Emiel, anymore, and Emiel came right to him. He was less excited about it than he had been when he was just an infant, but this Emiel still at least knew Geralt was familiar. Even if the familiarity had gone from _daddy_ to _friend_ , it was still something. Geralt held Emiel just for a moment before kneeling down on the ground. He stood Emiel on the floor, who wobbled a bit on his knees.

“I want to tell mommy you can walk,” Geralt whispered. “I heard the mages saying that you were learning.”

“Mommy!” Emiel repeated, quite happily. He clapped his hands together before promptly falling back on his ass. Emiel at there and traced through the crevices in the stone floor, clearly more interested than that than he was in Geralt. But Geralt almost didn’t care.

He’d never heard Emiel _talk_ before. Was that his first word? Or had he been talking for months, but just never when Geralt was around? It would make sense; Emiel might still be shy around him, especially if Emiel didn’t quite know who he was. But that was a word. Mommy. Geralt rubbed at the base of his throat while that just sunk in, because _fuck_. He hadn’t seen Eskel in so long.

The thoughts were pushed aside, and Geralt stood to grab Emiel’s medallion, for him. He hung it around his own neck, then helped Emiel back up to his little wobbly knees. Emiel grabbed onto his hands for support, then looked at him with his big, curious eyes. Geralt couldn’t help but smile, because what a face. The perfect ring of his lips, the arch in his brows. Emiel was such a beautiful little boy, and Geralt longed for all the time that he’d missed.

“Come on,” Geralt said. He grabbed the medallion and held it up where Emiel could see it. “This is yours, right? Come get it.”

Emiel reached out for it, whining. “M—Mine,” he said, dragging out the sound of the first letter.

“That’s right, that’s right. Mommy gave this to you, remember? Let me see you walk.”

Emiel frowned like he was concentrating. Geralt let him go, then, and held the medallion out with both hands. Emiel took the first step, then, a bit hesitant in what he was doing. He eyed Geralt strangely, as if to wonder who he was and why he cared about this. In the end, Emiel’s want for his only toy won out, and he walked. He walked all the way up to Geralt, grabbing the medallion and yanking on it before he realized that wasn’t going to work, then he walked forward. Another step, and he was between Geralt’s thighs where he was squatting.

Geralt hugged Emiel, then, holding up against his chest. Emiel shifted to the side so he could mess with his medallion while Geralt held him, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he rested against Geralt to take the pressure of his own two feet, for which Geralt did not blame him. He was barefoot, walking around on stone. He had some clothes on. He could walk. He could talk. He had _teeth_. Geralt held Emiel, stroking back through his hair. It was wavy to the point it was almost curly, and Geralt couldn’t fathom where that’d come from.

“Do you like your medallion?” Geralt asked, resting his fingertips right underneath it.

“Mine,” Emiel repeated, but he pursed his lips and looked a bit shy about the whole thing.

“Yes, it’s yours. It belonged to your mommy, first.”

Emiel looked up. “Mommy?”

But how did Geralt answer that? He just stroked Emiel’s hair and pulled the medallion’s chain from around his neck, draping it all back into Emiel’s little hands. It took Emiel’s attention right back as he tried to hold everything. Once he’d sorted himself out, Geralt picked him right back up and set him down in his makeshift bed. It really was just more of a containment box; he wouldn’t have a real bed until they’d moved him into the bastion, which wouldn’t be for another few years.

Emiel sat there, legs crossed, and bounced his medallion in the air. For just a moment of indulgence, Geralt watched those meager attempts at play. As always, he had to leave. He had to leave quickly. With a kiss to Emiel’s forehead, Geralt bid farewell, but Emiel barely even looked at him. He just pursed his lips together, smacked them once or twice, and held his medallion close. Geralt wished he could do more, but he left.

Come April, the next class of Witcher boys went through the Trial of the Grasses. Only two of them survived, and life continued as normal. Until came time for the Trial of the Dreams. Geralt, Gweld, Gardis, and Reven were all eighteen, now. They’d passed every test, all of the trials, and were ready for the next step. Unlike the Grasses, this trial was done alone, and it would not kill them. They would be asleep for the entirety of the trial, hence the name. The Dreams.

Gweld had been the first one to go, but there was little time to ask him of his experience. The only thing he said was that it was Geralt’s turn to meet the mages in the laboratory, so that’s what he did. Gweld took his place in training, admitting that he’d rather train than go to sleep, and Geralt made his own funeral procession across the yard. It wasn’t as if he were going to die, but he couldn’t help but feel the whole thing was strange. What sort of a trial would this be? The Witchers hardly spoke about it. When asked, most of them brushed it off.

It was no big deal. Somewhere in that comment had been exactly what a deal this trial was, but Geralt had never read between the lines. He’d just accepted the answer. Now, he wasn’t quite so sure.

Geralt entered the laboratory and was met with exactly what he didn’t want to see—those same torture-device looking tables that they’d been strapped down to for the Grasses. There was exactly one of them, and it was still dripping from where they’d had to clean it down. There was also only one mage. There were vials and more awful contraptions that Geralt recognized, but he didn’t ask any questions. They were expected to not ask questions.

“Strip,” the mage barked, and Geralt did what he was told. He stacked his armor and weapons on an empty table, then stripped down to his smalls. His clothes were folded up neatly and set beside the armor. Then, per the mage’s next order, Geralt hoisted himself up onto the table, wishing he didn’t have to.

The metal was cold to the touch as he laid down in it. The mage strapped him to it, then pricked into his arms. Just like the Grasses, so far, as tubes were pressed into his body. But that was all Geralt could remember. The moment the mage opened the first vial, he fell straight to sleep.

_He was alone, when he woke_ , but he was nowhere near Kaer Morhen. He didn’t exactly know where he was, but it was dark. There was a heavy fog around him, and somewhere through it, he could hear something. It sounded like his own voice, but so much younger. Screaming for something, asking, maybe. Geralt couldn’t understand loud or quiet, only the strange dread that was nestling in his chest. He pushed forward, and only then, did the realize that he was in a forest.

He pushed his way through the underbrush, trying to follow the sound of his own voice. He couldn’t tell if he was getting closer, if he was even moving, but his chest was tightening. His whole body felt strange; he could _hear_ himself screaming. Not him. The younger version of him, he thought, running through the forest. Looking for someone. Searching. The boy sounded frightened, and Geralt felt it. He felt frightened, himself. He was frightened of the fog and what he might find within it.

The trees began to morph around him, coming together in the center of a clearing in a cloud of smoke where Geralt then found himself. A little boy, standing there with his hair cropped short and his eyes _wide_ with terror. What was he looking at? Geralt stepped closer, and the boy turned to face him.

“Where did you go?” The boy asked. “Why didn’t you _want_ me?”

His voice turned dark, instantly, and his eyes rolled back into his head until blood dripped down them, and they were replaced with empty, black holes. Geralt reached for the sword on his back as the boy grew large, morphed and mutated into some horrible fiend right in front of him. Geralt was terrified. He’d never seen anything so large, not in person. Everything he’d ever learned about these monsters drained right out of the back of his head, like a long black shadow that planted itself in the ground.

Geralt dove for it, grabbing and tearing at the grass and the dirt, but it was gone. He could still hear the monster coming for him, so he did the only thing left he knew how to do. He grabbed up his sword and struck at it. He flung wildly at the monster, and it flailed back in nearly the same manner. Striking, scratching, clawing through the air until it caught Geralt and threw him to the ground. But he recoiled. He rolled back, popped right back onto his knees, and struck for the monster again. And again. Again, and again until he was striking at air because he’d already cut the beast down.

When had he cut it down? Where was the body? He turned in a sudden horror and did not see the massive, hulking shape of that fiend, but the broken body of a woman who’d left him, once. So long ago that he didn’t remember her face, and he hardly remembered her name, but he knew her in a way that all children knew their parents. In a way that Emiel would never know _him_.

Geralt sheathed his sword and dashed forward, ignoring the sudden pain in his limbs. His legs crumbled out from beneath him, and he fell to the dirt beneath the woman. He looked at her through a child’s gaze, and only saw the things a child would. A stark brightness of her hair, of her eyes. Her skin was pale and white like his own. Her face was simple and lacked all features but a smile. A smile that quickly turned into a frown as Geralt grabbed her. She was bleeding all over the ground, and he had to _help—_

But the moment he touched her, she melted to oil in his hands. He shot back, scrambling away from the thick, viscous mess of blackness that now pooled in the grass. He reached for his sword, afraid, and his sword was gone. All he had was himself, and he was panting. Things were getting harder to see, like he was going blind with the sudden panic. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel his own limbs, his fingers. She didn’t want him. She’d thrown him away. She would have rather _died_ than keep him.

All at once, the world around him dropped away like it had plummeted off the edge and into the stars. Geralt scrambled up to his feet, closed his eyes, and opened them again. Everything became crisp when he looked at it. The forest was replaced with the snowy mountaintops he was so familiar with, but they held no comfort in their familiarity. It was like he could see each individual spec of falling snow. It was almost too much. He could smell the grass as it went to sleep and hear the cracking of the flowers as their stems snapped under a snow fall.

It was too much. It was like the whole world was dying all around him, and he would be next. Wouldn’t he? Geralt trudged through the snow, suddenly colder than he’d ever been in his life. He was alone. His mother could have helped him. She could have gotten him through this winter, held him close and sang a song like mothers did to children.

Could Eskel sing? Geralt had never found out. They were mates, but he didn’t even know if Eskel could sing. Would Eskel have sung to their son? Held him in his arms and rocked him to sleep, if given the chance. Maybe. There was always a tune that Eskel hummed, but he’d never sang it. What was the tune? It was a tune somewhere in the snow, and if Geralt could just find it, he could convince Eskel that he hadn’t left him. He wouldn’t do what his mother had done to him. She’d left, but Geralt wouldn’t. He wouldn’t abandon _anyone_.

Geralt suddenly dropped to the snow, listening for that tune. He could hear it. He could hear it in the way the snowflakes fell and crumbled into one another, so he followed it. He followed, listening to where the tune turned to voice instead of snow. Falling snow. Geralt was so _cold_. He was freezing, but he couldn’t stop. Had to endure. This would save his life, wouldn’t it? Something to tether him down, to remember something that he couldn’t possibly remember—he didn’t _know_. Couldn’t remember something he didn’t know.

But he was cold. He was cold, and when he found the tune, it warmed him. It played in his hands like twinkling starlight, and it warmed him right up through his chest, his neck. He breathed it in, swallowed it down and let it consume him until he could hum it too. Until he could sing it, if he knew the words, but the words didn’t come. He didn’t know the words. Did Eskel know the words?

Geralt stood in a flash of hurry.

“Eskel?” He shouted. “Eskel!”

He trudged forward through the snow and listened to his own voice echo back. He’d been afraid, and that fear had been replaced by the overwhelming love of that tune, and now there was uncertainty. Through the echoes of his own voice, he could hear something. Something like a scream, like a shout, like a whisper.

_Geralt_.

He heard it. He followed it. He didn’t know where he was going, so each step was taken slowly, hesitantly, but he took them. He never stopped taking those steps, no matter how they frightened him. He had to do this alone. No one would be there to pick him up if he fell, so he went slowly, but he went. And he kept going, even as the snow started to fall harder and pile up around his thighs, he kept going. He could hear his own name in the wind. Louder, this time. He was getting closer.

Geralt found a cave by falling through the opening. He hit the ground, hard, and groaned. He wanted to just lay there, but he heard his name again. Louder. Right beside him. He jolted up onto his hands and knees, and his heart wrenched so hard in his chest he felt it break through his ribcage and hit the ground, beneath him. It melted away into the snow, and no one was left to grab it. He couldn’t find it; he wouldn’t even look for it. Leaving it there to rot in the snow wouldn’t take the ache away, but Geralt could hope.

“Eskel—” he rasped, and his voice left him soon after.

Eskel was hunched on the floor, a broken mangled pile of limbs and flesh and bone, chained down so tightly he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Every breath was a struggle, a heave through crushed windpipes and shattered _everything_. And Geralt couldn’t get to him. He could hear his heart thumping behind him in the snow, and he could go no further. This was. This was _rage_. Who did this to him? They took _everything_ from Eskel. He should have been here, taking this trial, but he was that.

He was a huddled pile of brokenness on the floor without so much the strength to move, and Geralt had left him to it. Geralt tried to push himself forward, but for every inch he made it, Eskel seemed to get farther and farther away from him. Huddled, naked, and cold.

“I’m cold,” Eskel’s voice echoed out. Broken and tired. “I’m cold, Geralt.”

“I know—I’m coming,” Geralt insisted, but the words never left his throat. He heard them but swallowed them when they struck him through the mouth again.

“Geralt, where _are you_?” Eskel breathed. He pushed away from his huddled mass on the ground and looked.

Geralt nearly screamed. Eskel bled from empty eye sockets with lips sewn together and a crooked nose, shattered and broken. The ground began to shake. Huge shadows rose up from the ground, and from them, Geralt could feel their judgment. They were large, hulking things with no faces and no bodies, but pure hatred. Pure disgust. All staring right down at him until they’d begun to do back flips through the cave as it began to crumble. It crumbled all around him, the shadows looming larger and larger until the stone cracked beneath him.

“Eskel!” He shouted, but Eskel was gone. Nothing more than bones forgotten on the floor of a cave, buried and burned, then thrown out to sea. Geralt fell through the cracks in the stone, and he landed hard enough to shatter his own bones at the bottom of the ocean.

Geralt stood up and rushed through his bag to find a potion. Killer whale. It would let him breathe. He remembered. He _knew_ , and then he drank it. It tasted like bile in the back of his throat, like seaweed and death, but he didn’t know _why_. In the next second, he was washing up on a shore made of children and not of sand. The graveyard for every Witcher boy who never made it, who never had a chance. Geralt walked on their faces as he tried to get to the grass.

But they were endless, and as he walked, their faces morphed. Their eyes opened. Terrifying little creatures pulling themselves from the grave to chase him, take him back down to the water with the rest of them. The worst of them. But Geralt was the best of them, so he kept pushing. He pushed until he left the shore, until he was collapsing on solid ground and grass and dirt and panting for what little breath he didn’t have, anymore.

“Fuck—” Geralt grunted, rolling onto his back and finally just lying down.

He didn’t know when his eyes closed, but when they opened, there was a boy standing over top of him. A boy with wavy hair and bright blue eyes, a straight little nose. Geralt flew up, but the boy was already stepping away. That couldn’t be Emiel. Emiel was—Emiel was a _baby_. He wasn’t even two, yet. This boy could have been six or seven. He didn’t run, like Geralt expected. He just stood there, arms folded behind his back as Geralt scrambled to get up to his feet.

“Emiel?” He breathed.

The boy shrugged. “Is this as far as we go?” He asked. He sounded like Eskel, but Eskel hadn’t looked like that when he was younger. Geralt remembered. He remembered everything about Eskel.

“What do you mean?” When Geralt took a desperate step forward, the boy took a step back.

He shrugged, again. “I mean, what’s left to lose?”

No. No, no, _no, nononono—_ Geralt lunged for the boy, but the ground had cracked open before he’d ever even blinked. The boy fell through the ground, burned and buried and tossed into the ocean with the rest of them. With Eskel. Geralt screamed, fell to his knees and beat into the grass until it cracked under him, too, and he fell.

But he didn’t go far. He was caught in something. Something white and soft like a child’s head of hair. Ashen white with a very distinct smell, that of honeysuckle and lavender and the finest of soaps. The words flew through his head, then, in a voice he didn’t know.

_What was. What is. What never shall be. What is. What was. What is to come._

Again, and again, he heard the whisper. Loud in his ears, quiet on his tongue as he repeated the words in time. He could hear that tune rising up again, the tune he’d found in the snow. The instrument that now played it was light on the ears, made of polished woods and cat-gut strings. It sounded lovely. It sounded peaceful. Geralt listened to the tune, every jump in the notes, every twist in the melody. Right down to his broken bones, it calmed him. Somewhere, if he listened hard, he could still hear his heart beating somewhere out in the ocean. Buried with the rest of them, the worst of them.

He hoped someone would find it, one day, and he let himself _be sung right back to sleep._

Geralt jolted awake, breathing hard, but his heartbeat was soft. Extraordinarily slow. He’d meant to scream, but his voice was broken in his lungs. He felt broken, like his bones had been dissolved and remade in his skin. Everything around him was jarringly crystal clear. At glance alone, he could read the names of potions stored on a shelf at the other end of the room, and what a terrible thought. Though he could see, things felt blurry. They felt foggy. Like his own fingers weren’t attached to his body but just floating near.

“He’s ready to be moved. Use that old room on the western side; they’ve cleaned it out, already.”

“This could kill him, couldn’t it?”

“Very much so, but we don’t believe it will. He’s handled everything ideally.”

“Works for me. If he dies, it’s not my fault.”

A laugh.

Geralt’s head lolled to the side. He just breathed. It didn’t take long for him to fall right back out of consciousness.

He was taken from the laboratory to an empty room on the other side of the keep. Anyone he was passed by stopped and gawked, and a question hung heavy in the air of what was happening. Was Geralt dead? He wasn’t, but he breathed so slow that he may as well have been.

These new trials he was to be subjected too were experimental, at best. They may kill him. They may be entirely harmless. At the end of the day, he would walk away from them a stronger Witcher, faster and more resilient. He’d suffered through the Grasses better than any other, and he certainly had proved himself in how he took a beating. Now it was just a matter of the mind’s will. If his mind could see him through this, then he would survive.

They set him up in the new room quickly, diligently. More vials, more potions, and more tubes into his skin. Geralt was awake for none of it, but when the pain began to course through his blood once more, he felt it. His whole body went tense with a new sort of pain. It wracked through his body, and only by the exhaustion of the Dreams did he stay awake through it all.

This new trial, these experimentations, they lasted for days. Geralt never woke up once, though his body was wracked with pain. He writhed with it, groaned in his induced sleep. They fed him with tubes, forced water down his throat in the very same way. Kept him teetering right on the edge of death as new things were fed into his system, broke him apart, and rebuilt him.

It was the first day of May when Geralt finally woke up, and he did so with a loud groan. He was unrestrained, and without anything to hold him to the table, he fell right to the floor as he tried to get himself out of it. He hit, hard, but nothing could outweigh the pain he was already in. Everything ached. He remembered hearing that they would force him through _extra_ , but he hadn’t expected it so soon. Not like that. And not after that awful dream.

Geralt woke with dread that maybe his dream was _real_. That maybe he’d been asleep for so long that Eskel and Emiel were both dead, and he would be forced out on the Path any day now. It wasn’t true, that he knew of. He was still eighteen. Just newly awoken and dazed. Everything felt just as overwhelming now as it did when he awoke from the Grasses, only the ache was worse. He barely managed to pull himself up to his feet, and when he did, his knees wobbled beneath him.

He remembered being taken from the laboratory, but not the room he’d ended up in. This could be the same, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything; he was _alone_. He stumbled over his own two feet, knocking things from tables and shelves as he tried to walk. He was going for the door, but before the door, there was an old mirror perched against the wall. This was clearly a storage room of some sort, stacked to the ceiling with boxes and shelves filled with more boxes. A lot of _stuff_.

But this mirror was the only thing that caught his attention. He pulled the fabric down from it, unwilling to believe what he could see. His eyes must have still been adjusting. But the image remained the same, when he looked within the mirror, once more. He’d never been particularly tan, but he’d never been this white, either. This pale. Deathly, when he looked at himself. His skin was so white, but so was his hair. He’d gone to sleep as Geralt and woken up a Witcher.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mutilation, mentions of abuse, injury, and pregnancy
> 
> as I am posting this, i have actually started working on ch40, so I know for a fact that this fic will be longer than 40 chapters. stay tuned! check out the tumblr links at the bottom if you wanna see more :)
> 
> do mind the warnings, also. it's not incredibly graphic but it could be disturbing.

Vesemir took Geralt straight to Eskel’s chamber, no questions asked. It’d been, again, _months_ since Geralt had seen him, and given recent circumstances, Vesemir couldn’t find a reason to deny Geralt a visit. Geralt had nearly died, again, as far as he was concerned. Not only that, but his dream had shaken him right down to the core. Vesemir’s willingness to take him to the chamber meant that Eskel wasn’t dead, but what if that dream had just taken the extra step? Eskel didn’t have to be dead to be ruined.

Geralt’s heart was in his throat by the time Vesemir opened the door. It was dark outside, and they should have been reading for bed, the both of them, but they were here. Vesemir ushered him inside, quickly, before anyone could see, then closed and locked the doors. He didn’t need to turn around to know what they’d stumbled across—something Geralt hadn’t wanted to see, even as he told himself it would be _fine_. Geralt had sucked in a breath. Shock.

Eskel was pregnant. Not only could Geralt smell it on him like a rotten, pungent piece of food, but he could see it. _Gods_ , he could see it. Eskel was naked, chained up on the bed with his arms pulled taught, and curled up on his side. It did nothing to hide the bulge of his stomach, nor the developing swell of his chest again. As always, he covered in wounds and bruises. There was the distinct smell of dried blood. A handprint on his thigh so hard it had turned a disgusting purple color.

Not only that, but Eskel looked _smaller._ Like he was losing weight, losing his strength. He was paler, too. Living his life in a dark room, trapped to a bed. Geralt swallowed his emotions back down his throat and moved forward to sit right on the edge of the bed, as he had the first time. And Eskel flinched. He actually flinched away, closing his eyes and trying to press his face into the pillows.

“No—” he croaked out. “They said—not until tomorrow, _no_ —”

“Eskel, hey, hey—” Geralt didn’t touch him, but he leaned in closer. “Eskel, it’s me. It’s Geralt.”

“No, no, no—” Eskel almost didn’t hear him. He was trying to get _away_ from Geralt. Opened his eyes, saw him, and didn’t know who he was looking at.

Vesemir could hear them from the door, and though he had not yet turned around, his own heart broke a bit more at the realization. The recent trial had changed Geralt so much that Eskel didn’t recognize him by looks, and it’d been so long since they’d seen each other, Geralt’s smell didn’t ring as familiar as it should have.

Geralt scooted closer, slowly. Eskel couldn’t go very far, and though it was by fault of the chains, it kept him from scrambling right off the side of the bed. He was whimpering, _pleading_ with Geralt not to touch him. Not to hurt him. He would do anything, anything Geralt wanted, as long as Geralt didn’t _touch_ him. And Geralt didn’t. He just leaned over Eskel, close enough that Eskel could smell him better.

“It’s me,” Geralt whispered. “It’s Geralt. Don’t you remember? We—” Geralt almost laughed, “—we got caught one summer out trying to catch honeybees. Vesemir beat us for it.”

Eskel stilled, then.

“When we both made it through the Grasses, do you remember where you found me?” Geralt chanced a touch, then, one that Eskel didn’t flinch away from. He let Geralt pet back through his hair.

“The cellar,” Eskel managed to say.

“That’s right.”

Eskel didn’t smile, but when Geralt leaned down, he didn’t shy away. He let Geralt press their foreheads together, allowed the touch. The touch even seemed to soothe him, now that he knew who he was talking to. For a long moment, they just stayed like that. And when Geralt pulled back, he looked to Vesemir.

“Is there anything that can be done about these chains?”

Vesemir sighed, but he nodded. “Rennes has only recently given me the key, though no one ever wants him released.”

“I do. Please.”

Vesemir stepped up to the side of the bed and sat down. With gentle touches, he unlocked both of Eskel’s shackles. He had to do it slowly, because once the first shackle was open, Eskel’s arm collapsed like a heavy piece of stone. The second did the same. He had almost no strength left, at this point. Even now that he was free, he didn’t move. Vesemir stepped away from the bed and moved off to the corner, attempting to give them as much privacy as possible.

Geralt moved onto the bed and shifted Eskel around, until Eskel was pressed into his side and lying against his chest. Eskel hardly moved, and what he could manage to do was meager, at best. He tried to rest his hand on Geralt’s chest, and even then, Geralt had to hold it there. He was happy to. He just wanted to keep Eskel close.

He told Eskel everything he could think to tell him. He told him about Emiel, how he was walking and talking already. Time was flying, quickly. He talked about the trials, too. The ones he’d just gone through. He didn’t remember much, but he told Eskel what he thought wouldn’t leave him with nightmares of his own. Gweld and Gardis were, of course, a topic of conversation. They still hadn’t changed, and Geralt hoped they never would. Geralt didn’t mention his own beatings or how many times he’d been refused food for his actions. He only spoke of the good.

Though Geralt had hoped for it, Eskel didn’t smile once. He hummed in response to most things, but he didn’t speak, and he didn’t smile. Geralt smiled in his stead, though it was strained and sad. He’d had one arm around Eskel’s shoulders, but he moved it now to stroke along Eskel’s neck. The nape of it where his bond mark still was, still thriving. The touch of it allowed Eskel to breathe easier, suddenly. And still, he didn’t smile. He still smelled of that potion he had the first time, though it wasn’t lingering beneath the stench of heat, any longer.

Even like this, very obviously pregnant, they were still _hurting_ him. Using him. Geralt could smell it. He could smell countless things, and all of them made him sick. He just squeezed Eskel’s hand and leaned closer to him, holding him as tight as he could without pain. Neither one of them needed more of that. Geralt had come here seeking comfort, and he wanted to give just as much as he got. Having Eskel back in his arms was something he wouldn’t trade of the world.

“We can’t stay here for long, pup,” Vesemir said.

“I know,” Geralt muttered. “Just a little while longer. Please.”

Eskel curled into Geralt, then, as his own silent _don_ _’t take him_. He rubbed his knees together, and that was the only time Geralt moved. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over Eskel, all the way up to his shoulder. Eskel stilled against him, almost immediately. He was cold. He was always so cold, but he couldn’t get to the blanket. From how little he moved, too, Geralt understood he maybe wasn’t even strong enough to pull it up.

“Eskel,” Geralt whispered, “I love you.”

Eskel hummed. He shifted on Geralt’s chest, and though his chin dug into it uncomfortably, Geralt didn’t say anything. Eskel was looking up at him, eyes half-lidded but open. He could take the discomfort for this.

“I dreamed about you,” Eskel muttered, and Geralt carded his fingers through his hair. “And you’re here.”

“I’m here. I’ll come back as often as I can.”

“Will you tell me more stories?” Eskel asked.

“Anything you want to hear. I tell Emiel stories, too. I don’t think he knows who I am, anymore.”

Eskel hummed, letting his head tilt back down. “He loves you, Geralt,” he whispered. “I do, too.”

Eskel settled a bit too still, after that, but he was breathing. He was just sleeping. Unwilling to disturb him, Geralt sat there for another ten minutes before Vesemir was sure they needed to leave. Only then did Geralt struggle to ease Eskel back down to the bed. He stroked his fingertips down the side of Eskel’s face, down his neck. He felt along his shoulder, his arm, and down the curve of his side where he could feel ribcage, then the jut of his hip bone. Simply because Geralt couldn’t help himself, he pressed his hand to the swell of Eskel’s stomach, too. Pregnant, again. This time, they hadn’t a clue who the father was, because nobody cared.

“He needs more food,” Geralt muttered.

“Don’t bother with it, boy. It won’t be good for either of you.” Vesemir was careful to put the shackles back on, and Geralt pointedly ignored the awful raw blackness around Eskel’s wrists.

“This isn’t fair. Everyone’s just so fucking complacent. Look at him!” Geralt hissed. “When was the last time they even let him up to walk—” Vesemir shushed Geralt.

“I’m begging you, Geralt, to _leave it_ ,” Vesemir said.

Geralt frowned, but he didn’t say anything more. He just followed Vesemir out of the chamber and tried not to feel sick as it was shut again, behind him. When as he going to see Eskel again? When would be the last time he saw Eskel before he just succumbed to everything and _died_?

Geralt left as quickly as he could, hurrying away from the chamber before Vesemir could talk to him, again. He had just woken up from the Trial, and reasonably, he didn’t have to jump back into training. But he wanted to. Everything had left him feeling haunted and disturbed. The best way to get that out of his system was to beat it out of his system. It was still early enough in the evening that there was training to be done. If there wasn’t, maybe he could convince someone to spar with him. At least until he could get the image of Eskel dead out of his mind.

He found Gweld and Gardis sitting in the yard, both panting and sweaty. The weather was getting hot, oppressive, but training never stopped. They were taking a quick break, just chatting between them—something about sharpening their swords. Geralt caught their attention as he came hurrying over to them, and of course, their conversation stopped dead. They stared at him. For a long moment, he didn’t even register they were staring. He just walked over and sat right down on the ground with them.

Then, the silence really set in. Neither one of them even greeted him. When he looked up, Gweld’s jaw was stupidly agape. Gardis had the decency to stare a little more subtly, but he was still staring. His pupils were even blown. Geralt swallowed.

“You were gone for a long—long time,” Gweld said, then looked at Gardis. Then, he looked back. “What happened?”

Geralt shook his head. “I don’t know. I—there was a dream?”

“They did call it the Trial of the Dreams,” Gardis supplied. “I don’t think any of us should have been surprised.”

“I don’t remember much of it,” Geralt muttered, rubbing his face. “When I woke up, they were talking about moving me. I must have fallen back asleep.”

“Wait, you just woke up?” Gweld asked.

Geralt nodded. “I—yeah, I just woke up.” He didn’t need to tell them that he saw Eskel. Nobody needed to know the Eskel he left in that chamber.

“Have you, uh, seen yourself?” Gweld asked. “I did not recognize you for a minute, but you’re kinda hard not to. You know, once you got closer.”

“I’ve seen myself, you git,” Geralt muttered. “There was a mirror. Pretty sure someone put it there on purpose.” He reached back and ran his fingers through his hair. It was long enough that it hung over his shoulders, and he could see the white. Everything had been white, when he’d seen himself in that mirror. Even his chest hair. He was sure if he would have pulled down his smalls in disbelief, his pubic hair would have been white, too. He _felt_ like a mutant, now. Looked like one.

“Did the Dreams do this?” Gardis asked.

Geralt shook his head. “Something extra. They talked about doing more after I’d passed the Grasses but wanted to wait.”

“Fuck,” Gweld breathed. “What else did it do? I mean—you look like a ghost.”

“I know,” Geralt muttered. “I know.” Eskel hadn’t even recognized him. He could never go back, but he almost wished he could. Maybe this white hair would suit him as he got older, but for the moment, it just made him feel strange. Look strange. He would be a walking broadcast, as if the swords and medallion wouldn’t be enough.

“We’ll get used to it.” Gardis sighed. “It’s not a bad fucking look, you know.”

Geralt cracked the smallest smile. “Thanks, I—thank you.”

Gardis grinned. He wasn’t lying, either. It was a new look that they’d all have to get used to, but Geralt did look good. A walking mutant, sure, but he looked good. He would do just fine out there.

Three days later and a few very bad decisions, Geralt was sitting in an old, unused room with Gardis, Gweld, and some of their newest trainees. The boys had just made it past the Grasses and were looking to celebrate, and at least they were making less of a stupid decision than Geralt and Eskel had made in how they were choosing to do so. They had sneaked into the drink cellars that no one but the true Witchers were even allowed into, and they’d come out with exactly one bottle of white gull.

The trainees weren’t supposed to have white gull, not unless they were given it specifically to use as a base in alchemy. Even then, they weren’t supposed to drink it. It was alcohol, about as high quality as could be brewed. It was potent. It was said that even the smell could knock a normal man straight to the floor. Normal people used it to ease the suffering of the _dying_. It was strong enough to wipe the fear of death from even the weakest and most afraid. And this was why they weren’t supposed to touch it.

While they were kids, they could suffice on ale and rum like the rest of the human population. But they weren’t exactly kids, anymore. The Grasses went and removed that from ever being possibly. They were all above the age of fifteen and mutated in ways that could never be undone. That seemed like something strong enough to elevate them all from children to men, even if they all knew they were nothing more than a bunch of cocky imbeciles just trying to have some fun.

“We’ve only got one cup,” Brutus said. He was the youngest, even if they were all the same age. All of them fifteen and newly turned. The few survivors from their class. “So, we have to share.”

Brutus had buck teeth and a crooked nose, but his hair was soft and luscious. It was a raven color, and it might have matched the tint of his eyes, once, if they hadn’t turned a solid gold after the Grasses. His skin was dark, too. Then, there was Jael, the oldest. He was white with brown everything, including freckles. Brown hair, brown skin spots, and brown eyes. So he said, anyway. It was all golden from here on out. The final boy was Tristan, who had auburn hair and a kind smile. He was the one who grabbed the cup from Brutus’ hand first.

“You’re a fucking sissy, what you are,” Tristan said. He was also the only alpha; Geralt could smell it on him. “We should drink this thing straight from the bottle. Go round the circle here and everyone takes a sip. First one to piss his pants is a fucking wuss.”

Jael snorted, laughing. “Who goes first, then?”

“I will!” Gweld offered, throwing his hand up. “Think we make the fucking kid and Geralt go last—alphas gotta learn to wait their turn.”

Tristan looked at Geralt, then, strangely. Geralt didn’t meet his gaze, because he knew exactly what it was about. Tristan smelled like Eskel. There was scarcely an alpha who didn’t.

Gweld swiped the bottle right out of Tristan’s hand, then uncorked it. Immediately, the smell hit him. Like raw, unfiltered fermentation. Gweld whooped and hollered, wrenching his head back as the stench ripped through him. That was enough to put chest hair on top of chest hair, but he still had to drink it. He wasn’t going to be the one to pussy out of this, even if this first drink might just kill him, dead. He took the bottle by the neck and swigged it back, swallowing whatever dripped into his mouth.

When he came forward, he passed the bottle off to Gardis, instantly, shouting something foolish as he did. It burned straight down his throat to where he could feel it burning in his gut. It hit hard and it hit _fast_. Gweld was giggling to himself before Gardis even mustered the strength to take a sip, but he did take a sip. And oh, the look on his face when he passed the bottle on. It was sour and strong; it burned his tastebuds right off his tongue, and that was the only nice thing it did.

Brutus drank next, and he took one walloping swallow of it. Way too much, and he choked, sputtered, and laughed. Then, Jael took the bottle and took his own sip. He didn’t take it too badly, but that was because he’d taken only an inhale of the fumes. No one had caught him, as those who’d already drank were already fallen off their rockers. Geralt and Tristan were still looking around each other. Jael passed it off to Tristan next, though, and that took Tristan’s attention.

“To the Path!” He cheered, then threw his head back as he swallowed. He swallowed twice, just to prove his mettle, and choked on it. While he was spitting up and coughing, Geralt took the bottle.

He looked at it, swirled it around, then looked out to the rest of them. Making fools of themselves. He idly wondered if that was something he’d ever find the time to do again; he had so much _responsibility_. Geralt squeezed the neck of the bottle and took one, long drink of it. It burned on the way down, but he hardly blinked.

“Geralt wins!” Gweld shouted. “You know! When he first got back, what, fuck it, a few days ago? God, you’d think he was fucking dead. Look at him, and just—well—” Gweld hiccupped. “Look at him! He’s gone all fucking ghostly white, and for what?”

“I’m stronger than you are,” Geralt reminded. His voice had been getting deeper, too, just over the years. It didn’t crack so much, anymore.

“Oh, pish. You were always fucking stronger.” Gweld waved Geralt off.

Geralt cracked a smile.

“What took you so long to even fucking get _back_?” Gardis asked. “I was done and back up on my feet before they even told us you were alive. Really, we thought you took the Dreams so bad it killed you.”

Geralt shook his head. “Extra stuff.” He looked at Tristan, then. “I went to see Eskel, afterward.”

Nobody noticed Tristan’s inhale of breath, but it was enough that Geralt stopped looking at him. That wasn’t a sound of a boy who wanted to fight about it. That was the sound of regret, and Geralt could get by with that. Not every alpha was like Reven, who was still boasting his conquest whenever he had a moment.

“Ah, good, good,” Gardis praised. He fell back against a stack of boxes and burped, then grimaced. “That shit’s disgusting. Why are we doing this?”

“Because we can,” Brutus reminded. “We fucking survived, and I think that’s worth celebrating. I mean just, fuck—that shit was awful. If I can’t have a drink after surviving _that_ , then what’s a good time for a drink?”

They all made a fake cheer to that, hands empty of glasses. It didn’t take long after that for everything to quickly go to shit. White gull had hallucinogenic properties, and none of them actually knew that before they’d decided to swig back as much as it as they could handle. By that point, they were all tripping over themselves in pure stupidity, far beyond them to realize that Jael hadn’t actually taken a drink. He was enjoying himself, regardless.

Geralt hadn’t drank enough to feel the full effects, but he laughed and joked with the rest of them. When Gardis fell half into his lap, claiming something about seeing rats scurrying through the walls, Geralt just patted his back and let him whimper on about it. Gardis did not like rats, nor did he like animals at the best of times. The fact that he could even ride a horse was particularly amazing.

“The rats!” Brutus then shouted. “What if they get through!”

“They won’t, you big idiot,” Tristan replied, falling into him. “It’s the bears you got to worry about.”

“Bears?!” Brutus boomed.

“Can’t you hear them? Scratching at the door—they’re trying to get in.” Tristan jolted up to his toes, lost his footing, and fell. They all laughed. Even Geralt.

Tristan seemed like a fine boy who probably didn’t know what he was doing when he was told to do it. His friends certainly didn’t seem to know what had happened, which meant he didn’t go around bragging about it.

“When are the Witchers supposed to get back?” Jael piped up.

“Winter, you fucking idiot,” Gweld snapped. “Winter, winter, winter. Everything happens in winter.” Gweld fell back with his arms spread out.

“When are you guys leaving with them?”

Gweld let out a hefty sigh. “When the fucking rats stop flying.”

“Spring after next,” Geralt informed, still mostly in his own head. “We’ll be nineteen next spring and sent off when we’re twenty.” He still didn’t know how he was ever going to leave this place. He didn’t know what would happen to Eskel if he wasn’t here. It certainly couldn’t get _better_ for him; there was no other alpha in the keep actively trying to protect him. That was a rage for another day. Vesemir believed that time would be the key to salvation and was not actively trying to harm either of them. Just waiting.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Gardis muttered. “Hope they’ll give us a goddamn map.”

“I’m gonna find me a pretty lady to fuck before I fight my first monster,” Gweld barked. “Nobody pretty enough in here for that.”

Brutus snorted. “What pretty lady wants some sad beta’s cock.” A detriment to himself as much as it was Gweld.

“The kind that takes _money_ ,” Gweld snapped, rather loudly, and then laughed. “We don’t get none of that happy life shit. Just whores, monsters, and money. Can’t ask for much else.”

Geralt grimaced. He already had more than that, to the point where he didn’t want the whores, monsters, and money. He could still see just the slightest glimmer of that cottage in the woods by the small running stream, enough for a waterwheel. Eskel could recover, there. He could be happy. Maybe he’d even _smile_.

“Buddy, you good?” Tristan was the first to catch Geralt retreating into himself. The last person Geralt wanted to talk to. Tristan could have been the one to put that third baby in Eskel’s belly, and Geralt would kill him if that was the case. But he wouldn’t. That wasn’t right. Tristan was a child. Even more of a child than they were, now. But Geralt should have been going off on the path in two years with Eskel. Instead, he was going to have to find the will to leave him behind in a keep full of alphas who would hurt him.

“I need to go,” Geralt said. When he stood, he stood up on wobbly feet. It’d hit him harder than he thought, but not hard enough to turn him into a garbling fool.

They all bit him farewell and went straight back to their whooping and hollering. They were having the time of their lives for the evening, but Geralt couldn’t stand it. This _being happy_ business didn’t feel like something he deserved, not when Eskel was in chains and Emiel was still locked up in a room all on his own. That’s where Geralt would go. He’d go see Emiel. He couldn’t see Eskel, not without pounding down Vesemir’s door and admitting that he’d sucked down a good, hefty swallow of white gull.

He could get into Emiel’s prison, though. That wasn’t hard. It was the same window he’d learned how to crawl through. Sometimes, the door was even just _open_. It was late enough, too, that they might have expected Geralt to be asleep. He might have been, if it wasn’t so deathly hot in the summer and there hadn’t been the promise of alcohol. Even as inebriated as he was, Geralt still had no trouble climbing into the window, though he tripped on the way down.

Nobody heard him, and Geralt didn’t even bother to clean up his mess. He just waded through the room, using the lit torches as a vague guide of where he needed to go. His sense of smell was a bit weaker, with the alcohol, but he still found his way straight to Emiel. Emiel _was_ asleep, curled up on his side with his medallion in his mouth. Geralt ached for him. He shouldn’t be so selfish to disturb his son’s sleep, but he couldn’t help himself. He reached for Emiel, took him up in arm, and held him under the thighs.

“You’re getting so big,” Geralt muttered, dropping down to sit on the floor. Emiel woke up a second later, medallion dropped out of his mouth. He rubbed at his little eyes with his little hands, then sucked down one big breath. Even if he didn’t know Geralt was his father, he knew Geralt was friendly. Knew Geralt was safe. He didn’t have a problem flopping forward and resting his head on Geralt’s chest.

“Cold,” Emiel muttered, his voice muffled from where he talked into Geralt’s shirt.

“I know, sweetheart. One day,” Geralt slurred, “I’m gonna make sure you’ve got all the big blankets you need. Keep you and mommy nice and warm.”

Emiel snuggled into his chest and closed his eyes once more. That medallion was like a lifeline, to Emiel, and he held it as such. The only thing he had.

Geralt patted Emiel’s back, bouncing his leg. It rocked Emiel gently, the movement, as it shifted up through Geralt’s body. Geralt could hear the cooing of the other baby—Reven’s baby. He couldn’t care less about that thing, if it woke up or if it didn’t. He just wanted to hold Emiel. He wanted to hold Emiel for as long as he could, forever. Was it possible?

“I’m going to get you a house,” Geralt muttered, letting his own eyes close. “Gonna find you some toys. Teach you to ride a horse.” He breathed, deeply, settling down against the wall.

Emiel made a little whining noise. Somewhere in there, Geralt heard his muttered, tired question of _what_ _’s a horse?_

“Big animal,” Geralt replied. “Four legs. Tall, strong. Takes you places faster than your feet. You’ll get your own, then you name it. Loyal beasts.”

Emiel hummed.

“Let me tell you a story,” Geralt said. It would put them both to sleep, but Geralt didn’t mind that idea, currently. He could think of no better a situation than falling asleep with his son on his chest. Emiel was sucking on his thumb, holding his medallion close to himself. His eyes were closed; he was ready for a good story. Good stories brought good sleep.

Geralt picked the story of the first time his little class of boys learned how to ride horses. It had ended dreadfully with him on his ass in the mud, but Eskel had laughed and laughed. His smile was so bright. Emiel had the same smile, though Geralt had seen so little of it. Hadn’t seen much of Eskel’s, either, because he didn’t smile anymore. He didn’t have a reason to smile, but Geralt still knew what it looked like. Still remembered it. Eskel’s lips would turn up, and his eyes turned bright.

It didn’t take long before Geralt had rocked them both straight to sleep. Emiel was warm in his arms, comfortable, and Geralt hadn’t felt so relaxed in years. Emiel was a firm, comforting weight against his chest. Geralt hadn’t even meant to fall asleep, but there he was, drifted off with his son.

When Geralt woke again, it was morning and Emiel was being ripped out of his arms—screaming, kicking, and crying. Geralt jolted right up to his feet at the sound of those cries, instinctively reaching out to follow, to try and grab Emiel and bring him back. A mage had him, scooped him right up and stepped out of Geralt’s reach. Geralt stumbled, still trying to get Emiel. He was half-asleep, groggy, and confused. He went for the sword on his back without thinking and found that he was entirely unarmed. He’d left his swords in the barracks.

They’d been drinking. He’d come here. _Fuck._ He couldn’t think with Emiel screaming, but Emiel was screaming for _him_. He wanted Geralt. He liked Geralt more than he liked the mages, and for whatever comfort that brought, it didn’t matter. They were taking him away.

“What the fuck is he doing in here!?” Came a snap.

“What makes you think I know? The door was locked, and that’s all I care about!”

“I’ll leave!” Geralt shouted. “It—it was a mistake. I got drunk—”

“If you think you’re going _anywhere_ — Somebody get Rennes down here!”

“No!” Geralt screamed, scrambling forward. “No, no—I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, please, it was the drink—I—!”

“Shut up!” The mage shrieked.

Geralt fell back into the shelves, still off his focus from the white gull. He’d slept well enough, pleasant dreams and warmth, but his head was still so fogged. The light hurt his eyes, and he felt like he might vomit at any moment. The sudden sickness was made worse at the thought of what was going to happen. A mage had already run off, left to go find Rennes and bring him down here to witness the crime. Geralt grabbed at his stomach. He stumbled forward, then, but a mage pushed him back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She barked.

“No, just— _please_ ,” Geralt groaned. He was going to puke. Nobody cared, though, and thankfully, he didn’t puke.

There was a long moment of just nothingness while they waited for Rennes to be found and brought down. They wouldn’t let Geralt leave. They wouldn’t let him sit down. It was only when they heard the approach of footsteps that someone grabbed Geralt and pulled him outside. He should have been able to fight back; he was bigger than all of these mages. Stronger. But he felt so sick, and they had _Emiel_. It would be so easy for them to do something.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rennes shouted. Geralt could hear his voice, the stomp of his boots. A second later, as he was dragged out of the laboratory, he could see Rennes. His hair was all slicked back, and he was angry. He’d been dragged down from something important and was once again met with Geralt. It was always Geralt. Geralt being thrown down in the grass in front of him, the hot summer sun already high in the sky.

“We found him in the laboratory,” one of the mages said, instantly, and it was followed by lies. He’d had his _hands_ on Emiel—and no, he wouldn’t. Never. They didn’t know if either Emiel or the other boy, apparently named Tobias, were hurt. Geralt wouldn’t have ever raised a hand against a child, even if it _was_ Reven’s. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of person, but it didn’t matter what kind of person he was. Rennes already had his thoughts about him, and nothing would change them.

“How many times?” Rennes growled. “We have told you time and time again to keep your fucking nose out of this, and time and time again, you put it right where it doesn’t belong. We’ve beaten you, whipped you, left you hungry, without water—what will it _take_ , Geralt?”

Geralt just doubled over in the grass. He was trying not to vomit, but even without that, he wouldn’t have anything to say. He would keep trying again and again and again. He needed to be able to see his son; even if he couldn’t have Eskel, his _son_ was so important. Emiel already didn’t know who he was. Losing what little they had would kill Geralt. He would have lost everything, at that point. What would he even have left? Being a Witcher? What the fuck did that even matter if he didn’t have Eskel and his son? He was going to vomit. He might have even thought to cry, but the urge just wasn’t there, anymore. Dulled from the Dreams.

Rennes dropped down into a squat and grabbed Geralt by the chin. “Your brat child is proving to be quite extraordinary; do you know? They’ve been keeping an eye on him, watching how he grows, checking on certain things, you know. They’re really quite sure he’ll be one of the best Witchers we’ve ever seen. Even better than you. And do you know what that means?” He squeezed, and Geralt groaned. “That we don’t _need_ you. The second child will be the same, and if I know the day of it, your whore will be giving birth in the next month. Another child, better than you.”

Geralt gulped. Rennes wrenched his head forward, making sure their eyes were locked.

“So, I would never hurt these children. Think of them as my own, in fact. If I still had the ability, I might even have one. Your bitch is a fine, fine boy, you know.”

Geralt struggled, but Rennes held firm and leaned in close.

“I’ve certainly had a taste, Geralt.” He pulled back, throwing Geralt down to the grass, then stood up. “Bind him!” He shouted. “I want him brought to the whore’s chamber. _Now_!”

Geralt did vomit, then, overcome with the fear. The disgust. Things he could only feel now because the white gull was still thrumming through his system. He didn’t even have the strength to struggle as he was bound in stinging shackles. The very same Eskel wore—dimeritium, designed to eliminate the use of magic. He couldn’t use signs to protect himself, and he certainly couldn’t use his hands. They’d have been his only weapons; his swords were hanging uselessly on the end of a chair in their barracks.

He was dragged through the yard; it was just like every other time he’d ever been pulled around, only the shackles were new. He attracted the attention of trainees, instructors, and Witchers alike. Everyone wanted to know what trouble Geralt had gotten himself into now, especially when the usual flogging pole was bypassed. They were going straight through the keep to were Eskel’s prison was, a veritable funeral procession. A murder procession. Geralt fully intended to not survive this, but if the last thing he did was sleep with Emiel against his chest, then he would be okay. He could face the afterlife.

When they arrived at Eskel’s chamber, the door was already unlocked and propped wide open. Anyone who wandered by could see the horror Eskel lived in, if they hadn’t already. Chained to the bed, covered in blood and bite marks and bruises. He was going gaunt and pale, and as far as anyone knew, he didn’t even get out of the bed anymore to be bathed. They sponge-bathed him right where he lay and fed him propped up against pillows. Some alpha even said they laid him on the floor when the sheets needed to be changed, and the thought set heavy in Geralt’s stomach.

This whole thing felt wrong. He was dragged straight into the chamber with Eskel, who’d only barely managed to open his eyes before the room was overwhelmed. Geralt was brought to the side of the bed, and under Rennes’ orders, he was held there. There was a hand on his forehead, specifically, to keep his eyes open. That was when Geralt started to struggle—this wasn’t about him. Rennes wasn’t going to slit his throat in front of Eskel, no. He was going to do something _to_ Eskel, and he was going to make Geralt watch.

“Gather round, if you must!” Rennes shouted. “This is what happens when you can’t keep yourself in line. Geralt—you have consistently disobeyed orders. The only reason you haven’t been hanged for your insubordination is that we _need_ Witchers like you. But this?” Rennes suddenly drew a knife.

“No!” Geralt shouted, and then a rag was pulled taught between his teeth and shut him right up, nothing but muffled complaints, grunts, and cries.

“This _thing_ here isn’t needed for anything out there on the Path. It’s serving its purpose right here, well enough. A good warm hole to fuck when the winters get cold. As long as it’s got a cunt, it doesn’t need this pretty face, does it? And since Geralt seems to care so much about it—” Rennes lowered the knife, and that was when Eskel seemed to finally realize what was happening. He tried to struggle, tried to push away, but Rennes grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.

Eskel gasped, his breath catching and stuttering. His legs kicked weakly, a testament to how little of him was left. Rennes was practically sitting on his chest, straddling him. It helped keep Eskel down, keep him still, as if the weight of his own pregnancy wasn’t enough to leave him stifled.

Geralt cried out through his gag, struggling against the hold he was in. There were four people practically on top of him, keeping him right where he was. Eyes open. Forced to watch this. Rennes’ knife wasn’t even sharp, and he pressed it right into Eskel’s forehead and _dragged_.

Eskel _screamed_. He struggled, but _gods_ , he couldn’t move. He couldn’t get away from it. The knife dragged and it cut, and it tore, all the way down the side of his face, right along the point of his eyelid and down his cheek, down to his lips. The first cut ended right at the swell of Eskel’s bottom lip. Eskel had screamed until the tip knife left, and then he just panted. He was sweating, eyes closed tightly. There was blood just _everywhere._ Torn, raw skin. Geralt couldn’t breathe. Geralt could not _breathe_.

He shouted through his tag as Rennes pressed the knife tip into Eskel’s forehead again. Eskel screamed, but his voice was so shattered it barely registered as a yell and more of a desperate, horrified whimper. The knife dragged down his face, along his cheek, his lip, and down his chin. Eskel was panting when it was done, sweating. Bleeding. Bleeding. Blood back through his hair, in his eyes, in his mouth, soaked down into the pillows beneath his head.

And Rennes was _grinning_ —like he’d been waiting to do this. Like he’d wanted to do this since the moment he found out what Eskel was. Now that he finally had the excuse to do it, he did it again. He started at Eskel’s temple and lingered there just long enough to laugh.

“The bone is weak here,” he growled. “I press hard enough, and that’s it. Right here. Dead. But I wouldn’t do that—not while you’re so fucking _useful_.”

Rennes dragged down the blade. He went straight from Eskel’s temple to the corner of his lips, then down his chin. The next cut started just at his cheek, down to his chin, but Rennes pressed _deep_. Almost deep enough to cut straight through Eskel’s cheek and leave him permanently deformed, as if this wasn’t enough.

Only a few had even stayed to watch it from the open doors; it was horrifying. Eskel was a _boy_. He was eighteen, pregnant, and screaming. Helpless. Defenseless. Rennes had just cut him, a jagged and dull knife, four times across the face. But that wasn’t enough. Even when Eskel was choking on his own vomit from the pain, Rennes hadn’t had enough. He threw the knife down to the bed and pressed his hand against Eskel’s face, digging his dirty fingertips into the wounds and dragging down the lengths of them.

“This is Geralt’s fault,” Rennes said, panting, himself. The rush had flown right through him. This was what it was like to have power, and he craved it. Adored it. The way Eskel screamed as he pulled apart his open wounds just tingled in his spine. “He couldn’t do what he was told. I told him if he just stayed _away_ ,” Rennes leaned down, “that you wouldn’t be harmed. But look what he’s done. I want you to think about Geralt every time you see your ugly, fucking face.” Rennes spat.

He jolted back, pulling his hand away. He was breathing hard, and Eskel was near gone. The pain had taken him straight to somewhere else, but he was lingering on. He needed attention, immediately. It was only by some miracle that Rennes had had enough. He pulled off, entirely. He climbed off of Eskel, off the bed, and picked up his knife. He walked over to Geralt and wiped the blood off right on Geralt’s cheek.

“So you don’t forget,” he said, his voice a growl. Then, he said louder: “let him go. Tend to the bitch’s wounds, and let his poor, wounded alpha lick them.”

Rennes left, after that. Once he was gone, Geralt’s shackles were released, and he nearly fell forward onto his own face with his hurry to get Eskel. Geralt was shaking by the time he got there, half-kneeling on the bed and half-hovering. His hand was trembling violently when he reached for Eskel. He didn’t dare touch, but he wanted to. Against the unwounded side. But he couldn’t bear to. Eskel was looking at him, one eye bloodied and closed, the other open.

“Eskel—” Geralt rasped. “I—”

Eskel was looking at him like it was his fault. With betrayal, with hurt, and with anguish. Geralt had gone too far. He’d done the one thing that everyone told him not to—get Eskel hurt. He’d finally managed to get Eskel hurt, and the worst of it was that Rennes was right. This was exactly the way to get him to stop.

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt croaked. He was pulled away a moment later. Everything was starting to blur, then, but he was ushered straight out of the chamber. His moment, gone. Nobody would trust him with Eskel again.

“What have you done?!” He heard Vesemir’s shout, faintly. When he turned, he watched Rennes walk right past Vesemir, ignoring his question. Geralt would find no comfort in Vesemir, now. Vesemir saw him from across the yard, and there was something awful in his eyes. Blame.

Gweld and Gardis were nowhere to be found, but Geralt knew he would find the same in their gazes. He remembered what Gweld had said to him, that night out in the cold while slapping salve onto his wounds. As long as he didn’t get Eskel hurt, they’d be there for him. They weren’t waiting for him, here. Geralt didn’t know if they’d ever been, but they weren’t now, because Eskel was hurt. Geralt didn’t deserve them, and he knew it. He didn’t deserve Eskel, either.

He slumped forward, walked on wobbling knees. Vesemir approached him and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You go back to the barracks,” Vesemir said. “Don’t you leave until I sort this out.”

For once, Geralt didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t argue. He just trudged on, heading back for the barracks. He would find the room empty, and he deserved it. When he sat down on the bed, he was alone. And he deserved it. Eskel’s wounds would never heal, and Geralt may as well have been the one to hold the blade.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none this time!
> 
> please enjoy :)

Two days, in the scheme of things, was nothing, but to a Witcher’s training, it was everything. And it took Geralt two days before he could even pull himself out of bed to return to training. He had no right to be wallowing, though no one had told him that to his face. Surely, they all felt that way as strong as he did. Nothing had happened to him. It wasn’t _his_ face that had been cut into ribbons. All he’d lost was the only family he’d thought he’d ever know; it wasn’t much. Surely nothing worth moping over.

He dressed, pulled on his armor, and strapped his swords to his back. Everyone else was already gone; no one had bothered to speak to him since the incident, and frankly, Geralt was glad for it. Even happy for it. It meant that Reven was decent enough not to say anything, though he’d never been before. That was the only positive, because it meant Gweld and Gardis hadn’t been lying when they said an injury to Eskel would be the final straw. It’d happened. Geralt didn’t know what he could do.

His morning meal tasted like ash, and it felt like rocks in his stomach, but he ate. He ate because he had to, and then he headed out to the yard. As much as he wasn’t supposed to train alone, Geralt considered it. He didn’t know if he was ready to face anyone, because they certainly weren’t ready to face him, but training was important. If he died on the Path, then everything was worthless, anyway. If Eskel had to suffer for him, then he had to at least make it _worth_ something.

A sorry excuse to tell himself. He didn’t have a right to be upset.

They were training with an instructor that Geralt didn’t know personally enough to remember his name, but it didn’t matter. It meant the instructor didn’t know him, either, and yelled at him for arriving late. Three sets of eyes were on him in a second, but he just gritted his teeth and stepped into line.

“In two years’ time, you’ll all four be headed out on the Path,” the instructor said. “Training kicks up from here on out.” As if that was shocking. “Mind yourselves.”

They were paired off for the morning’s training, given practice swords, and told to fight like their lives depended on it. Not to actually try and kill each other, of course, but wounding was always an option. When the instructor picked their pairs, Geralt’s heart sank. He wouldn’t have wanted to be paired with any of them, really. Reven would have been his first choice, because the worst Reven could do would say out loud the things he already said in his head. Gweld, though. Gweld looked right at him in a mix of rage, betrayal, and utter sadness.

Geralt held his training sword tightly and tried to look past it. This was training. Only training. They weren’t even _meant_ to have friends, in here. If he had to go without friends in the keep, then he could. He would go without them on the Path for the majority of the time, even if he were looking forward to meeting up to count their coin before they all got back. It wouldn’t happen if Gweld kept looking at him like that. Like he hated him. Maybe even wanted Geralt dead.

“Make it real, pups,” the instructor said. “You’ll never fight a foe more dangerous than one who knows how to kill you.”

Gweld struck first, and he struck quick. Geralt’s parry was weak, and his strike back was slow. He couldn’t quite muster the strength to hit back as hard as he could, but he tried. He blocked blow after blow, sword spinning out in the air in front of him. Gweld somehow struck harder and harder each time, pushing Geralt back and back. He cast Igni, and finally forced Geralt to _do_ something. He dodged, rolling to the side of the sudden flame and striking back. Gweld blocked just as simply. Just as fast. Breathing hard, panting.

There was rage in his eyes. Rage in his strike. He struck and struck again. Geralt blocked and blocked and blocked again. He let Gweld push him back, almost no desire to fight back. He had to. He knew he had to. But when he struck his first true blow from the ball of his feet, he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell into the grass. He caught himself, recoiled, and spun on his heel to block Gweld’s next attack. Another block. Always blocking. Following Gweld’s lead in their dance as he banged on Geralt’s sword again and again.

“Fight back!” Gweld shouted, shrieked. He grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and slammed the blunt end of the sword down into Geralt’s, the wood echoing.

Geralt surged forward and struck. And struck and missed and struck again. Another blow, another hard and heavy grunt. Gweld cried out as he returned the favor, strikes always harder, always more _intense_. Gweld was angry. His battle cry was real, and it was angry. Gweld slashed through the air like he fully intended to cut Geralt’s belly right open if the strength of his sword would have allowed it. It hurt, and Geralt recoiled, but he fought back.

Geralt cried out as he struck, and he missed. Tripped again. _Gods_ , he couldn’t do this. They went back and forth, trading who it was who led the dance between them. They traded blows, blocks. Signs were thrown, shouts were shared. Back and forth, back and forth. Geralt hit half as often as Gweld did, and it just fueled the fire in Gweld’s attacks. Geralt wasn’t fighting back as hard as he could, and Gweld knew it. It left him enraged. So angry that his next strike sent Geralt straight to the ground.

That should have been the end of the fight. Geralt would be dead if this were real, so it counted. That was it. Over. But Gweld stalked forward and raised up his sword again. He beat Geralt with it, not caring whether it was the flat side or the dull. It wouldn’t cut him, but Gweld could unleash Hell upon him with it, anyway. Crying out with each strike. Watching as pitiful, wounded Geralt tried to block the blows with his hands, with his arms.

“What is wrong with you!?” Gweld shouted. “You’re gone for _days_ , and you can’t even fucking fight?!”

Geralt scrambled, trying to stand, but Gweld’s onslaught kept up. No matter how he reached for his sword, he couldn’t get to it. Gweld just kept hitting and hitting, slicing with a sword that couldn’t cut. _Shouting_ as he did it.

“Fight, Geralt!” He stopped all of the sudden, his sword raised above his head. “You had so much fight in you—and look what you _did_ —” His sword fell right out of his hands and Gweld collapsed into the grass. Geralt finally had a chance to sit up, struggling to catch his breath, and look at Gweld.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Gweld said. “You could have _stopped_ while you were still ahead. I—” Gweld swallowed. “I saw it start, and I couldn’t watch. I left and I threw up in the goddamn yard. Did you even—?”

“I saw all of it,” Geralt rasped. “I—” he remembered the blood, feeling it on his fingers as he ran to Eskel’s side. The damage had already been done. There was no undoing it. Eskel’s face would never look the same again, and neither would his eyes. The way he’d looked at Geralt. He was feeling sick, again.

“What were you doing when they found you?” Gweld’s voice was barely loud enough to hear.

“Left our little drunken party. Fell asleep telling Emiel about when we learned to ride horses. He didn’t even know what they were.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gweld breathed. “That’s what this was about? I— _fuck_!” Disbelief. They were so dead set on ensuring that Geralt never saw his son that something as _innocent_ as telling a boy bedtime stories resulted in this. Gweld was going to be sick. He looked like he might even cry, but tears refused to flow. This far in the training, none of them could cry anymore.

“I—” Gweld started again but stuttered on his own breath. “I know you love your son, Geralt, and just. You know? Fuck, I’d love to meet him to. Thought it’d be fun to be _Uncle Gweld_ , or some shit, you know? Feels like all of us might as well be family, anyway, all the shit we’ve been through together. And I’m always going to think this whole thing is fucked. What would be so bad about letting Emiel see you, anyway?”

Geralt shook his head. “Treat him like all of the rest of the boys, maybe.”

“But that’s bullshit, because they’ve never told Vesemir to stop being soft on you, and the old fucker is. You know it.” Gweld sucked in a deep breath. “I wish it wasn’t the way that it is, but it is, so it has to stop.”

Geralt gritted down his teeth, then watched as Gweld pulled himself up. He was unsteady on his feet and rubbed at his face.

“That—that _happened_. You can’t ignore it,” Gweld whispered. “ _Please_ , Geralt. You have to just fucking stop. What if they kill him, next time?”

The look on Geralt’s face was grim, pained, but he understood. He’d crossed a line that he’d never wanted to cross; he didn’t think that something so innocent could have such dire consequences, but it had. One thing was clear, and that was Rennes was using this as some horrid excuse to just lose his mind in the violence. Eskel was the only one in the keep who was an omega—the only one who couldn’t fight back. Geralt couldn’t put him in danger, even if it meant giving up everything he’d tried so hard not to lose.

“I’m done,” Geralt said, gruffly. “I won’t try again.”

Gweld extended his hand down for Geralt to take, and Geralt took it. Gweld yanked him up, one step farther, and wrapped Geralt in a firm, one-armed hug. Tightly. Held Geralt there even if he didn’t want to be held there.

“We’ll find a way,” Gweld whispered. “You will, anyway. I just know it.”

Geralt nodded; that was about as much forgiveness as he was going to get. But this was a promise he had to keep. He wouldn’t try to see Eskel, and he wouldn’t try to see Emiel. It wasn’t worth it. Not with the consequences as dire as they were, now. Geralt couldn’t stand to be the reason Eskel was hurt worse.

“We should get back to training,” Geralt said, when Gweld pulled away.

Across the yard where Gardis and Reven had found the winner of their match—Reven—their instructor was looking at them. He had seen their fight turn sour, end, continue, and end again. He hadn’t once attempted to intervene, because what they’d done needed to be done. He knew enough to know that much and had let it be. Even now, as they both glanced across to him, he didn’t so much as gesture that they return, nor that they would be punished for taking a moment.

They would train, because it was really all they had to do. A day not spent training in Kaer Morhen was a boring one, so they would train. Really, at this age, it didn’t matter how they trained or who they trained with, as long as they did it. There was plenty in Kaer Morhen to keep them busy and to send them to an early grave if they weren’t careful, but that was exactly the sort of threat every Witcher needed to face and learn to overcome. As long as Geralt and Gweld returned to it, it didn’t matter.

They had two years before they would face the Path, and two more years to prove themselves.

It was on the hottest day in August when Kaer Morhen erupted in a tamer version of its prior uproar. The news was the same, though it was spread with less enthusiasm than the first two times had been. Eskel’s newest baby had been born, and though he had been apparently too weak to push it out, himself, they found a way. Unfortunately, he had a girl. That wasn’t the plan. That plan had been for him to only— _somehow_ —birth sons, because sons were what they needed to make Witchers.

Kaer Morhen didn’t train women. The Wolves did not train women. The only women in the keep were a few of the mages and some of service staff. It didn’t even matter if they were alphas, though this girl would not be one. Even if she had been predisposed to an alpha’s life, they would have done exactly what they planned to do. She would be raised in conjunction with her half-brothers until she was old enough to throw into the kitchens, and they’d be done with her. By then, Eskel should have given them more _boys_.

Come winter, some of the best things that they could do were to just stay out of the other Witchers’ ways and keep to themselves. It was best, too, for their own sanity. Many of the Witchers returned with a bit of gleaming excitement in their eyes, as some of them were strong enough to stave off expensive sex for the whole of the year for the treat waiting for them back at home. Hiding was the best way to avoid _that._ They boasted about it when they were done, which was bad enough.

Some of the worst thoughts came in the idle moments when Geralt simply had to walk past where he knew Eskel’s chamber to be. Even if he knew someone was in there, he could hear nothing. In the beginning, if one walked close enough, they could at least hear _something_. Something in the ways of Eskel screaming. Eskel didn’t scream anymore, though, and if that were to do with the potions they fed him or the exhaustion that no doubt stole his mind from his body, Geralt didn’t want to know.

In lieu of training in the newest storm December brought them, Geralt, Gweld, and Gardis were all holed up in a room on the south side of the keep. Gardis had been the one to sneak in the supplies that Geralt asked for, and Gweld only brought his usual, obnoxious self. And some water, but that was beside the point. They simply didn’t want to dehydrate by the roaring fire. Geralt had gotten there first with enough time to pull up three relatively comfortable chairs so they could all sit together. They were going to _study_.

“What did you need this for, anyway?” Gardis asked. He didn’t even greet Geralt as he walked into the room, just walked right up to him and dropped a very hefty hunk of wood into one hand, then a smaller knife in the other. “I didn’t take you for a whittler.”

“That’s not it.” Geralt shook his head, then gave a nod of thanks. “I just thought—” He shook his head. “It’s not worth mentioning until I can figure it out. Haven’t exactly done this before.”

Gardis offered a quick grin. “Sounds suspicious, and I will have no part of it when you get yourself in trouble.”

“No trouble, this time. Just a hobby, maybe.” Geralt took his block of wood and knife and sat down in the chair closest to the fire. That did not go unnoticed, and as Gardis sat down, he frowned.

Gweld showed up a few minutes later with the water he promised and one obnoxious looking grin. He plopped down in the third chair. His chair was the farthest, but he didn’t notice. He was more interested in the giant block of wood Geralt had in his hand, and a question got him the same response that Gardis had. Geralt wasn’t going tell anyone what it was until it mattered more, because he could very well fuck this up so badly it _wouldn’t._ Or he would do it well enough they would get what it was before he was even done.

“Alright, that stupid question out of the way.” Gweld waved his hand haphazardly in the air. “Time for the _real_ questions, are you boys ready?”

Gardis rolled his eyes. “We can’t just have a bit of fucking fun, first?’

“No fun when you’re a Witcher. Isn’t that what they keep telling us? It’s all work and bloody fucking monster killing.”

Geralt snorted, but he just rested back in his chair and started to scrape at the block of wood instead of interjecting.

“Ah, so the first _real_ damn question then is what are the monsters?” Gardis provided, leaning into his fist and smirking something devilish.

“Turns out its us,” Gweld huffed. That got both Geralt’s and Gardis’ attentions. He grimaced when he noticed them both staring at it. “Am I allowed to talk about him?”

Geralt nodded. He was going to have to get over it at some point, though they’d both been walking on eggshells around him since Eskel had his face carved up. They’d all made up, more or less, but it was always a sore topic. As if it were even possible, they acted like the mention of Eskel would somehow be enough to get them into the next swirling bit of trouble, and that would be the end. Realistically, Eskel wasn’t that fragile—Geralt hoped, anyway—and it also didn’t make any sense. Killing Eskel wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“He’s pregnant again,” Gweld muttered. “I heard it in the hall when I was getting drinks. Like—visibly pregnant.”

There was a bout of silence between them, with only the sound of a crackling fire and Geralt’s wood scraping. Visibly pregnant meant he’d been pregnant for a few months. Visibly pregnant meant someone went in there after he had his daughter, still _healing_ from his face wounds, and decided it would be a good idea to make everything worse. The idea made Geralt feel sick, but he swallowed it down with the rest of everything and just scrapped another shaving of wood away.

“Hey, Geralt?” Gardis said, and though he had Geralt’s attention, Geralt didn’t look up. “Why _hasn’t_ anyone tried to get him out of her?”

“Nowhere for him to go,” Geralt muttered. “Die out there, anyway, or find himself in a brothel. Wouldn’t matter.”

Gardis chewed on his bottom lip for a minute. And it made sense. It did. It still didn’t seem _right_ , but there wasn’t any way to make this situation fair. Eskel couldn’t just go out there and live a normal life—he’d lost all of his normality when he passed the Grasses. As much as it sounded like an excuse, it was probably true.

“What if there was somewhere for him to go, though?”

Geralt looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we were joking about stashing part of our coin away to save up for things out in the towns, but—” Gardis shrugged, then looked at Gweld. “I wouldn’t mind stashing it away for Eskel. We could hide it somewhere, bank it maybe—Witchers talk about banks, right?”

Geralt gulped. “No. You shouldn’t. Keep your coin when you get it.”

“But what if we could get him _out_ of here?”

“How would we get him down the mountain?” Geralt asked, sighing. “Don’t want to come up with this whole dream and miss the plan. Been thinking for years about getting him a cottage to live in down there, but what happens then?”

“We are not studying at all,” Gweld muttered. “I’m pretty sure they shoot us out back with a crossbow if we can’t pass the Trial of the Mountains.”

“Better that then this.” Geralt wasn’t enjoying this conversation. He didn’t like feeling useless, and that’s exactly what Eskel’s situation made him out to be. Useless.

“Alright. Who wants to go first, then?” Gardis asked. “Are we just supposed to be able to fucking regurgitate everything we’ve learned in the past eighteen years?”

“That seems to be what we’re doing.” Gweld growled and shifted in his chair, throwing his legs over one arm and his neck resting on the other. “Geralt—you’re going first. What’s your preferred topic of stupid knowledge? Potions or monsters.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, shaving off more wood. “Monsters,” he said. Gweld grinned.

Gweld basically just listed off facts or not, and Geralt had to be able to tell the difference. Frequently, they had to stop to argue about it. Gardis was convinced that a cockatrice did _not_ have feathers, and that was one that Gweld took it upon himself to correct. Geralt broke the tie, because Gweld was correct. Maybe they didn’t _actually_ look exactly like their rooster parents, but they did have feathers. Their next debate was the nature of a djinn—just when exactly they were angry. Geralt won that argument, too. Only angry when they were captured. Just another monster better left to its own devices.

There were the _monsters_ that Gardis didn’t even think were monsters. It wasn’t even that they were monsters, per say, just large animals that people couldn’t leave well enough alone, so they attacked.

“Nobody’s calling a bear a monster,” Gweld spat. “That’s stupid. Who is saying that?”

“Did we not have to learn about _bears_ right next to a fucking dragon?” Gardis argued.

“They’re all beasts. We just learned about beasts—”

“And then people call them _monsters._ Can’t wait to roll up to town and hear _oh, Witcher, please, we’re being attacked by wolves_.” Gardis pulled out his best fake-maiden voice for that. “Maybe you should have left the wolves alone in the first place.”

Geralt snorted, amused, but he didn’t say anything. He was finally starting to get a shape out of his block of wood, and that had most of his attention. Gweld and Gardis broke off into arguing, because that was what they did. It was the core of their friendship—obnoxious, hilarious banter. It was as fun to participate in as it was to listen to, and Geralt was just enjoying listening to it. It was turning quickly into an argument of opinion instead of fact, but it was informative all the same.

When they finally decided that their answer to their conundrum to was agree that people were just stupid, they continued. They went back to their fact studying, from how one was supposed to kill an elemental to the best way to deal with a striga. It was all purely theory: things they’d read in books or heard from other Witchers. Doing it out on the Path would be an entirely different story, but if they didn’t know the theory, they would have surely died, regardless.

Out there, it was a test of steel and of will. Of bravery matched with intelligence. Some of it was probably a tradeoff between greed and skill, too. Some of these monsters—beasts, if they were going to do this correctly and not easily—were difficult to deal with. Difficult and rare to the point where even the most seasoned Witchers would simply prefer not to deal with them. Witchers worked for coin and only coin. There was rarely a moment they were involved out of the kindness of their own hearts, because why should they be?

People hated them. That was the one story that always came home without fail. The people out there hated Witchers. Sure, a Witcher may save their lives, but the people still hated them. It was one of the stories that, ever attached to the ideals of a young mind, Geralt didn’t want to believe. He thought that, surely, if you could save someone’s life, they would learn to at least tolerate you. That wasn’t the story that the Witchers, shared, and that was why they worked for coin.

If people were going to have them risk their lives and still chase them out of town, refuse them refuge and food, then they were going to have to pay for it. Money could pay for everything, including affection. It sounded like a lonely sort of path, but it was a path that had to be walked. These beasts needed to be dealt with, and the average person had neither the skill nor the knowledge to do so. Better a Witcher be hated for it than the whole of the world perish. Surely.

Eventually, their discussion went to potions. This was easier, because they could each just name a potion and the one who listed off the ingredients faster got to flick the other one in the head. It was the perfect incentive to know the potions, until the flicking became a mutual thing, and everyone was getting flicked. It was _funny_ , though. Geralt even laughed. It was a real, hearty, thick laugh now that his voice had dropped so low. The first time he’d really laughed in ages, because he hadn’t had much to laugh about.

He’d been flicked in the head three times, now, and it got funnier each time. White gull was not the answer to every potion, no matter how much Gweld wanted it to be. Gweld had gotten flicked the most; though he’d known a thing or two about beasts, potions he’d been slacking on. He had two years to learn them, so there was no harm done, but every wrong ingredient got him flicked in the head. There was a burning red spot on his temple where Gardis made sure to flick him in the exact same spot each time.

“How many of these potions you even think Witchers carry around? Or do they just lug around a long list of ingredients and make things as they need?” Gweld asked.

“Be pretty fucking stupid if they carried around one of each potion,” Gardis barked. “Imagine! You’d never be able to even move. Pockets full of fucking potion vials.”

Geralt laughed. “Imagine if they broke. You’d have a mess.”

“Or death,” Gardis sneered, then looked at Gweld. “No, no that might be a good thing. Let this one break the potions in his pants.”

Gweld gasped in feigned offense, but they all three laughed.

“So, what are you making?” Gardis turned his attention back to Geralt. “Do we get to know, yet?”

Geralt shrugged. They’d been here for hours, now, happily content in the warmth of the room. Geralt was nowhere near done, but he was making progress. Half of the wood even had a shape to it, but when he held it up, Gweld and Gardis just each raised a brow. It had a shape, but nothing so distinctive that that they could tell.

“Thinking it might be nice if we were all here,” Geralt muttered. “Never made a sword hilt for myself, but I thought I could give it a try. You know,” he shrugged, “for Eskel.”

“Have you seen him—”

Geralt cut Gardis off, immediately. “No, and I’m not going to. I’ve done enough.”

“There are other Witcher schools, aren’t there?” Gweld asked. He shifted up in his chair, legs folded and leaning forward. “You know anything about those?”

Geralt shook his head. “Not really. Don’t know how good it would be to go around and ask, either. They’d sniff me out in an instant, what I was trying to do.”

“And just what are you trying to do? Nothing wrong with some healthy curiosity about our brothers, right?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Totally coincidental if you were to find out there’s a school out there that trains omegas—”

“Why would they?” Gardis interjected. “And I don’t mean that to be fucked up, but why would another school train them if ours doesn’t?”

Gweld shrugged.

“Not going to ask,” Geralt grumbled. “Can we get back to the studying? Why don’t one of you figure out how to make Cat?”

It was a race for them to rattle off the ingredients. Gweld would have won, too, if he had said two vials of water essence instead of three. It got him flicked in the head, and then mocked. Cat was one of the _most_ used potions, so how could Gweld not know the recipe? Gweld’s only defense was that he had two years to learn the potions, and after that, he could just carry a parchment around that had the recipes written down. What did he need a memory, for? That was mind space better used for other, more important things.

When asked to specify, Gweld made a bit tell about it. If they could brew potions, then he could sit down and figure out how to make himself some alcohol. He couldn’t imagine it would be good, but it would be free and fun. Sometimes, that’s all that mattered. That just earned him another flick in the head; he frowned, grumbled, and rubbed the side of his temple. Gardis was relentless.

Other Witchers in the keep, ones with more anecdotal experience to draw from in terms of what the weather looked like, were saying that the snow was only going to get worse. It’d been snowing steadily all day, but there had been dark and angry clouds on the far side of the mountain range that spelled blizzard. If they were right, there wasn’t much training to be done out in a blizzard. They could be stuck in the barracks with nothing to do but study for _days_.

That sounded more like a threat than a good opportunity, but it was something to look forward to. Geralt even thought the blizzard might be nice—it would give Eskel a moment of rest, at least, and it would give him time to figure out this hilt situation. He had absolutely no illusions that it would turn out good, but he could at least try.

Winter brought only one blizzard, but it lasted for days and the snow lingered longer. When the snow cleared and the path was free to walk again, they all knew spring was coming. By the time spring finally did come and the keep was half empty, again, Geralt had finished his first and poor attempt at making a sword hilt. He’d stayed up all night, one night, attempting to finish the finer details. Before he’d known it, the sun was up and shining through a slitted window, and the hilt was finished.

He’d tried to make it intricate, but this wasn’t something he had any skill with. It was just a strange moment of sentiment combined with the utter need to have something to do when the snow kept them in. He wasn’t overtly disappointed with the finish product, though it might have looked better if he hadn’t tried for details. For a first try, it at least appeared to be what he intended. It wouldn’t ever work as a real sword hilt, but it might be a good example for one. In reality, it would probably never be more than a botched piece of wood.

Eskel was never joining him on the Path, and the sooner he got over that, the happier his life would be. They would be nineteen at the dawn of March, and then his time was short. The years had gone by too quickly; just the thought of that was a burden all its own. Thinking back to how young they were when Eskel was first looked away was nearly unbearable. Geralt chose simply not to bear it, if he could help it. The hilt was just the feigned dream that maybe it wasn’t all as over as it felt.

Surely, they’d all hoped that the Trial of the Dreams would have dulled Geralt in some fashion. It was designed, in the School of the Wolf, to dull the emotions. Emotions made things complicated, and Geralt’s had made things more so. In some capacity, the Dreams had worked. Geralt didn’t feel quite so strongly as he had before them, but his feelings for Eskel had never waned. They never would. His desires still burned strong to see Eskel out of the cage, back with him. He missed Eskel.

Geralt decided the hilt was no pleasant reminder and shoved it into his satchel. It was the satchel he would no doubt use to pack and be on his way next spring, but he hoped to have forgotten about it, by then. It could rot in the bottom of his satchel, and he wouldn’t care. He took that morning time to fold up Eskel’s cloak, too. The forktail cloak Aubrey had wanted him to have. Geralt sighed and tucked it into the corner, setting his satchel on top of it. There was no such thing as packing too early, and he wouldn’t leave the keep without that cloak.

It was the perfect day for more training and more studying.

At the beginning of March, Geralt, Gweld, Gardis, and Reven were all gathered from morning training and sent to a claustrophobic room. There were no chairs, and the room probably better served as a passage point between halls and other rooms. Kaer Morhen was a proper castle, after all; these rooms were just meant to be pretty and decorative, though Witchers had little use for things like. So, the room was empty save for the four trainees and Barmin.

Barmin was one of the older Witchers; old enough to have been Vesemir’s mentor and instructor. He didn’t handle much physical labor, these days, and instead stuck to the theory. He lorded over the books and parchments and scrolls in Kaer Morhen and instructed the boys over it. There would be other instructors pulled to assist with the Trial of the Mountains, but for the most part, he was in charge. This moment now was to explain to the boys what they would face.

“Your trial will be in the winter,” Barmin said. “I’m sure you’re all smart enough pups to have figured out by now what this trial is. It is a test to ensure you’ve absorbed information.”

This information not only meant that they would have lives, but it could be information that would save their lives. Nothing was more dangerous than a monster a boy didn’t know how to face. That was how Witchers died. They didn’t know what they needed to know, or they didn’t prepare well enough to face the monster they faced. There were instances of skill, but no amount of testing would ever teach a boy to know what he could handle. That would be a long road of battling the ego.

“Come the day of your trial, you will each be taken to a separate room with an instructor to oversee you, answer your questions. It should take the whole of your day, and you are expected to pass your trial.”

If they didn’t, they weren’t taken out back and shot in the head with an arrow as punishment. It wasn’t that excessive. They would, however, be pressured to study more and take the test in the following week until they did pass. They couldn’t afford to not be sending boys out there on the Path; there had been select situations where a boy could not pass the test and thus took up a different role at the keep, but it was rare.

“I don’t suspect any of you will be living at the keep,” Barmin said.

Gweld interrupted with a snort, though Barmin’s resounding glare shut him up before he made a comment. One of them _would_ be living at the keep; it was like the whole lot of them had forgotten that Eskel was a part of this class. He hadn’t _died_ ; he was still as much a Witcher as the rest of them. Even without the Dreams, Eskel could still reasonably go out there and do the job. The Dreams was just extra mutations, though no one had ever explained it. No one ever would; few Witchers remembered it.

“Once you’ve passed your examination, we’ll pick a starting date for you to leave Kaer Morhen for the first time. You will be given a horse, a map, and a location.”

Seasoned Witchers just left. They weren’t told where to go. New Witchers were given their year’s hunting grounds to ensure they hunted alone. There was too much of a chance that they would either step over each other’s toes over the same contracts or attempting to work together. Either way, it meant less coin. In some cases, it even meant fighting. Witchers could kill other Witchers more easily than any monster or man out in the world, simply because they knew how to.

“I don’t expect any of you four with fail. You’ve only been working towards this since we first put swords in your hands.” Barmin even laughed, a bit of a scoff. Even the maps should be familiar, by now. Witchers had to learn anything and everything. “So much easier to teach when you’re younger. Less back talk.” Barmin snorted.

Children learned faster, they learned easier. Geralt had been five the first time they’d stuck a little child’s sword in his hand. It’d been made of wood, lighter and much smaller than a real sword ever would have been. How old would Emiel be when they shoved a sword in his hand?

“Once you get out there, though, just remember that we do things for _coin_. It might sound cruel, but it’s necessary.” Witchers didn’t help if they didn’t get paid; it was another one of those rules that had been drilled into their heads from the first day of training. They didn’t do things out of the kindness of their hearts, because no human would ever return the favor. They paid coin and they were paid in coin. Nothing more, nothing less. A simple business transaction.

Witchers didn’t have luxury; they didn’t know luxury; they did not long for it. They paid for their food, their beds, and their love. In return, they were paid for their services. The whole world was kept safe, and things were fine. That was the end of their less than pleasant conversation. They were dismissed.

On the way out the door, Reven stopped Geralt with a pat on his shoulder. “It sucks that I’m going to have to start paying for whores. Your puppy’s finally outlived his usefulness.”

Did Reven almost look concerned? “What are you talking about?” Geralt asked.

Reven snorted. “He’s a fucking mess, right now. Takes all the fun out of it when he just lays there and whimpers.” Reven left, after that. They were going straight back out to training.

Geralt didn’t give Reven’s comment the time of day. He should have followed Reven, kept himself in line, and gone back to training. But he didn’t. He went the opposite direction, hurrying down the stairs. He stopped and asked the first person he saw—where was Vesemir? They sent him on a wild goose chase, but Geralt eventually found Vesemir sitting outside of the armory where he was sharpening swords.

They hadn’t spoken much since the incident with Eskel. Vesemir still worked him hard through training, shouted at him when he made his mistakes. They still talked every now and again about things that weren’t training or the upcoming trial, but it was infrequent. The only reason Geralt was here now was because he had cause.

“What happens after I leave?” Geralt asked, walking right up to Vesemir. This was a future they never talked about, but Geralt couldn’t let it go. Even if he’d been keeping to himself, lately, Geralt knew he had some pull while he was here. Some of the alphas wouldn’t touch Eskel knowing that his real alpha was within the keep. Some of the younger boys, especially, were afraid of retaliation. Even if they were happy to go in there and fuck him, they didn’t hurt Eskel. They didn’t brag about it, either.

“What are you talking about?” Vesemir stopped his sharpening and looked up.

“With Eskel.”

Vesemir sighed. This wasn’t a question he even wanted to dignify with an answer, so he went back to his work.

“ _Please_. Reven told me—” Vesemir’s gaze jerked right back. “Reven told me that Eskel isn’t doing well.”

“When has that little shit ever given a damn about Eskel?”

“Since he stopped being so fun to fuck—what do you think? What’s going to happen to Eskel when I leave?”

Another sigh. “It’s best you not think about what ifs. You’re leaving next spring whether you want to or not.”

“How can I leave knowing that Eskel might be hurt _worse_ —”

“You don’t have a choice, Geralt,” Vesemir snapped. “You know you don’t.”

“Can I see him, at least?”

Vesemir shook his head. “You can’t. Even if I were willing to allow that right now, Eskel doesn’t need to worry about you, right now. He may not even want you in there; has that ever occurred to you? One of the mages, the older one—the alpha—”

“Mariette.”

“She said he’s exhibiting signs of abandonment. It’s best you just leave him, Geralt. He’ll be taken care of.” As if that didn’t sound like a lie. Eskel couldn’t get sick; Witchers didn’t get sick. But he could still go weak and _die_ , if they let him. He might still be too valuable to let die, but that sounded entirely contingent on Eskel’s continued ability to produce _boys_.

“What about Emiel?” Geralt asked.

“You can’t see—”

“How is he?” Geralt corrected. He frowned.

Vesemir set down his sharpening tool again. “Emiel is getting big. I suspect they’ll have him in the bastion before you leave. He’s displaying signs of mutation that have accelerated some of his development. I don’t know when they’ll start him training, but he’s big enough to be with the rest of the boys.”

“Will I ever get to see them again?” Geralt asked. His voice was barely higher than a whisper, and the sound of it was just sad. Broken. Vesemir sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I hope so, boy. I do.” Vesemir wanted to say more, but he didn’t. As much as Eskel didn’t need to worry about Geralt, Geralt didn’t need to worry about Eskel. It wouldn’t do either of them any good; it would just make the inevitably difficult future ahead harder than it already was.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: graphic detail
> 
> i'll be out of town next week, so chapter 15 might be late but do not dismay

In May, Eskel had his fourth child, though Geralt didn’t know about it until later in the evening. He was mulling over notes in the mess hall with a half-eaten meal and a jug of water when Gardis came in, looking for him. It was late enough that Geralt was practically alone, here. He usually ate later than everyone else, and then he stayed later. There was light enough here that he could keep reading over things when he shouldn’t be out throwing swords around.

Gardis hurried across the hall, a half-jog to his step, and sat right down at the table with Geralt. He waited patiently until Geralt finished the passage he was reading and then looked at him. Everyone had gotten harder to read after the Dreams, and the problem with betas is that they were harder to read by default. They didn’t smell the same as an alpha or an omega did. They hardly smelled at all. Gardis could have just as well been coming to tell Geralt to go to bed as he was bad news.

“Eskel had a baby,” Gardis said. “I— It’s a boy. So, they’re happy about that.”

Geralt grunted, then looked back to his paper.

“I heard they named him Remus? Is that good?” Gardis gave a strange smile. “Probably fucking not, uh. Look.” He sighed and leaned against the table. “Eskel’s—well…” Gardis trailed off and looked at the wood grains.

“Eskel’s what?”

“He’s not doing so well,” Gardis said, his voice quiet. “Like—not well, at all.”

Geralt sucked in a deep breath and gripped his hands into fists. What could he do? They weren’t going to just let Eskel go. If anything, they were just going to keep pushing on the path they’d started. A normal human wouldn’t have been able to withstand this sort of treatment, nor this much stress. Eskel hadn’t had a moment’s break since Emiel was born. It was no doubt his passing the Grasses that was keeping him alive. He was mutated enough to endure stress no human could, and they were taking advantage of it.

Eskel heard that familiar sound, by now. A baby crying. He just slumped to the side; his voice hadn’t worked for half of the event, anyway. Screaming was useless. The pain was just pain, now. He knew it well enough to just forget it, but this one had been particularly hard. They were having to get creative where Eskel lacked the strength to do anything to help. He just laid there and let it happen, because he couldn’t do anything else. It was a rare moment they even loosened his bonds long enough to let his arms go slack. When he had a moment to lay, that’s what he did.

The babies never stayed long, anyway. After his second child had been ripped from his arms, Eskel detached himself, entirely. He hadn’t held his daughter, and he wouldn’t hold this baby, either. Somewhere beyond the fog in his ears he heard them exclaim it was a boy. Good. That’s what they wanted. Boys. They could take the baby and be done with it. His suffering wasn’t over. Though the placenta birth never took long, Eskel dreaded it. Left him feeling slimy and disgusting, almost more than the birth itself had.

He saw the baby. The boy was brought to him, but Eskel’s eyes closed a moment later. He didn’t want this one any more than he’d wanted the one before. The more he didn’t care, the easier this was. Losing Emiel had hurt worse than death, and he lived with that ache every day. Losing the second boy, whose name Eskel did not know, had hurt nearly the same. That ache disappeared, because it was an ache he willed away. This time, with these two, the bond had not even had the time to form. Therefore, it couldn’t break.

What Eskel hated more than the birth, more than the placenta that came afterward, was the washing. By the time it all was over, he was putrid. The whole room stank of blood and fluids; the bed needed changed, and he needed to be scrubbed down. Every passing day made bathing him more difficult. He never left the room. He never left the _bed_ , because the chains wouldn’t let him. The first time they’d let him out of the chains, the bed, hoping to at least wash him properly, he’d collapsed right to the ground.

He’d been in here for years, though he knew little difference between a year and a day. It all felt the same. He just endured it. He endured being moved, manhandled into positions. Washed down, scrubbed like he was nothing more than an unruly dog. He just dealt with it, because there was nothing more for him to do. The moment it was over his chains would be tightened, arms pulled taught above his head, but he would finally have _peace_.

His peace came quickly, this time. He remembered the cry of the baby. Nothing else. Nobody noticed until the bath was done, until he’d been moved and moved again to change the bed linens. Only then did Mariette see his eyes closed, his labored breathing. And she went straight to his side, dropping down to a knee beside the bed and smoothing her hand along the unmarred side of his face.

“Eskel,” she said, quickly. Panicked. “Eskel, love, are you awake? Eskel!”

There came no response. He was alive, though. Quite clearly. He had no fever, and his pulse was just as slow as it ever was. She breathed, calming herself, then standing.

“There a problem?”

Mariette shook her head. “Not yet, there’s not. I must speak to Rennes.”

“You think he gives a shit about this kid?”

“I would hope he gives a shit,” Mariette snarled. “If we don’t give a shit, he’s going to die. Then where does that leave Rennes’ cute little plans, hm? Finish your work and finish it quickly.”

She stormed from the room, intending to make her way straight to where Rennes held himself up during the days. He was always working; it was a difficult task to run a keep, but rarely did he do his work in view of others. She still knew precisely where to find him but stopped midway in the yard when she came across Vesemir. Rennes was not Mariette’s favorite person to speak to, as she had little sway with the man. Vesemir was about as high in power in the keep as were possible.

She approached him, quickly.

“You’re Vesemir, are you not?” He nodded in return. “I must ask you go with haste to speak with Rennes.”

“About what?”

“It’s about Eskel. He needs a _break_. I would never dare try the argument to let him go; I know it can’t be won. But a break, at least, must be possible. It’s for his health!”

“Nothing about Eskel concerns him. His health certainly won’t.” Vesemir hated to say it, but they all knew it was true.

Mariette shook her head. “He’s passed out, Vesemir. He’s just had his fourth child in four years, and he’s passed out. He’s losing his strength quickly, and if he’s not given a _break_ , then Rennes gets nothing more out of him. He will die.”

Vesemir’s breath was sharp and hard. “I’ll talk to him. I can’t promise any results, so please—do whatever you need to do.” He grabbed Mariette by the wrist. “Whatever you have to do to keep him alive.”

“And let him suffer through this?” Mariette snorted. “I’d sooner feed him the poison, myself.”

Vesemir shook his head. “Keep him alive. There is a chance, yet he’ll find his way out of here.”

Mariette raised an eyebrow. “You believe in the little shit who did this to him so much?”

Vesemir’s silence said enough, and Mariette scoffed in disgust. She didn’t believe Geralt could do anything, _meant_ anything, but if Vesemir was going to tell her to keep Eskel alive, then she had to. Death would be a mercy, but she would figure something else out. Something to dull the pain, maybe help his strength. Damage had already been done that she feared could never be undone. The mental damage would be the worst of it. Even if, by some hope, Geralt got him out of here, it would be no fairytale.

She headed back towards the laboratory to come up with a solution to this, and Vesemir continued her original path towards Rennes’ chambers. This was a tired argument. They’d been arguing for _something_ since the beginning, but Rennes had never listened. Maybe to this, he would listen, because it would mean an end to the fun. Nobody wanted Eskel to die, and that meant taking a slight bit of care with these things.

Rennes looked up from his work Vesemir entered the room without so much as a knock. He took one look at Vesemir, smelled the air between them, and knew what this would be about. Vesemir smelled like the lingering scents of afterbirth, brushed off from Mariette. Rennes leaned back in his seat and crossed one knee over the other, looking unimpressed at the unceremonious entry. They were both beyond things like that; they were supposed to run this keep together, the three of them, and it was a constant battle.

“I assume this has to do with the bitch?” Rennes asked. “You smell like it. Had another baby, did it?”

“ _Yes_ , and I’ve been informed that he is weak.”

“Aren’t they all.”

“He could die, Rennes. He just needs a break.”

Rennes sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a new one. He just needs a break? Didn’t think you’d ever sing a new tune.”

“Haven’t gotten anywhere with the others, so here’s a new one. Eskel needs a break from this, or the stress is going to kill him. Even with the Grasses.”

“Fine.” Rennes gave in, quickly, waving his hand. It was better to find some compromise than continuing having to deal with this. “He can have the day tomorrow.”

“One day?” Vesemir sounded horrified. That wasn’t what he was arguing for. “Needs more than a day—maybe a year, if we’re to let him recover.”

“He gets a day, or I’ll personally go to see him myself, when my work is finished. What would you prefer, Vesemir? Since you’ve taken such a shining to the bitch, I’ll let you pick.”

Vesemir frowned. Rennes was the best of them, at one point. It was how he got to where he was, by being the best, living the longest. Omegas were a rare enough thing, and rarer still to find a male. If Vesemir had waited to see how he treated them before they’d made the decision, there would scarcely be no School of the Wolf. Many shared Rennes’ ideals, anyway. Many in the world shared the idea. Omegas were bought and sold like property, used for sex and slavery. The few of them in Kaer Morhen who didn’t believe in such practices would never outweigh those who did or were complacent.

“Give him the day,” Vesemir said.

Rennes smiled. “A good decision. They can tend to him tomorrow. After that, I’ll expect another child.”

Vesemir left, quickly, before Rennes could change his mind. If a day were all the time he could buy them, it was better than nothing. The only rest Eskel had ever had was the time from the birth until the sun rose the next day, but a baby could be born at any time. That rest could last hours as much as it could an entire day. This day was a gift, and they would have to make the most of it. At least it would give someone a proper amount of time to tend to him, patch the wounds he had.

By this time, though, the only hope Eskel had was that his nerve endings had all shut down from the stress and lack of food. That would be the only thing that could truly stop any pain he was in.

When Geralt jolted off the bench, Gardis grabbed him by the arm and yanked him right back down. Held him there, fingertips squeezing into his skin hard enough to leave indents of nails through his shirt. Geralt hardly felt the pain, but he felt the desperation, so he stilled and quieted. He leaned back over the table in a huff, squeezing his hands into fists.

“You can’t do _anything_ ,” Gardis said, pleading. “Geralt, listen to me. We go through the Trial of the Mountains at the end of the year. All four of us pass. We leave. Reven dies in some horrid accident because I pushed him into the fucking ocean, and then the three of us get coin.”

Geralt looked at him.

“If he has someplace to fucking go, he can fucking get out of here,” Gardis insisted. “We get him a place to go. He’s our friend too—Gweld and I will do this with you.”

Geralt squeezed his hands together, then, hard enough that his knuckles turned white and his hands went red. Gardis swallowed, then, and Geralt saw how his face went red.

“Gardis?”

“We could be a pack,” Gardis muttered, then shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be anything intense. Just a place to go. Wouldn’t ever have to come back here. Just send letters we aren’t dead.”

Geralt offered a weak smile. He reached out and put his arm around Gardis’ neck, wrenching him forward and jostling him back and forth. They both laughed.

“Sure, sure, I’ll be your alpha. Keep both you fucks in line.” Geralt snorted. And they just laughed and laughed until Geralt finally let Gardis go.

For the rest of the night, they sat there in the dying torch fire and looked over Geralt’s notes together.

Before the previous two trials, sleep was impossible. There was too much uncertainty and too much anxiety. This trial would be nothing like the first two—three, in Geralt’s situation—and so, sleep came quickly. It was December, and the keep was once again full. The pass would be snowed over in the coming days, and they were expecting the stragglers soon. The Trial of the Mountains was held in the winter so they had the extra help; it would take the day.

They dressed in the morning, ate as usual, and then were each called out from the mess hall. Gardis went first, and no one doubted he’d be done before the day was up. Reven next. By that point, their meals were finished, and their drinks had gone dry. All they could do was wait.

“We’ll do great,” Gweld said. “You don’t look worried at all, but I thought you could use the support.” He reached across the table and patted Geralt’s hand. “There, there.”

Geralt cracked a crooked smile. “Best keep all the luck for you.”

“Oh, is that an _order_ , Alpha?” Gweld snorted, laughing straight through his nose.

“Yes. Definitely. Pass your damn test so we can stop worrying about it.”

Geralt was called next, and he waved Gweld off with a weak salute. He left the table, then left the hall, trailing behind his apparent instructor. He was led to one of the eastern towers, where a room had already been prepared. There was a fire roaring in a corner hearth; the room was outfitted with a single, ugly carpet, a desk, and two chairs. Geralt sat at the desk, and his instructor lorded over beside him to explain what it was he was doing.

“I will ask questions, and you will answer them. You have until I ask the next question to mark your answer, so write quick,” he said. “I’ll be watching. There is no going back to answer a previous question. In the heat of battle, you must think on your feet. If you can’t answer a question in the time given, you’ll be dead out there.”

“Understood,” came Geralt’s meager reply.

The instructor moved to the other chair, turned on his heels and clasped his hands, then spoke again. “You’re faced with rapidly quickening fog. What does this mean and how do you respond?” The instructor sat down, then, crossing his knees.

It meant foglets. Geralt just had to scribble down what one did with foglets, and he had to do it quickly. It was a relatively easy question, really. The first few were. It gave Geralt a chance to gauge how long he had to answer the questions and what the important information was to jot down. He stopped writing in sentences after the question about the foglets. He just wrote down what needed to be done in the order it needed to be done. Essentially, he just wrote lists for each answer.

The questions didn’t have right answers; the only way to answer them incorrectly was to not answer at all. Reasonably, any method would work if the boy could just write it out fast enough. But if their answer didn’t finish or if they couldn’t answer it at all—dead. It was a timing test. It wasn’t to just ensure they knew _how_ to defeat monsters, but that they knew the fastest way to deal with them. Time was their worst enemy, and it always would be.

Geralt lost count of how many questions he answered. The questions were the same for all of the boys, in a specific order. He just needed to write his answers with no need to denote which question he was answering. Just answers. It must have taken hours, but the instructor was finally calling for him to stop.

“Stand and stretch,” the instructor ordered, and Geralt couldn’t comply fast enough. His hand hurt. As far as he’d always known, Gweld was ambidextrous. He could use both hands to do anything, which was not only an advantage with the sword, but with the quill. Where Geralt’s hand was starting to cramp, he could only imagine that Gweld was just switching hands. Completely unfair, the bastard. Geralt stretched back his hand until his wrist popped, and that felt better.

He was given water and a quick snack to keep him alert, but there was a whole second part to just _beasts_. Geralt was sure he’d have answered a question about every monster imaginable before the test was through. Some questions involved hints to the creature, and Geralt had to identify it from description alone. Others were much like the first—the monster was easy to know, so know it and deal with it. Other questions named the monster blatantly and Geralt had to explain what was to be done with them.

He answered question after question. When it came time for another break, he was permitted a midday meal. Midday, already. And more water. He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and answered more questions. The second portion of the test was about identifying ingredients. It which much faster than had the first, as the answers were a single word. Some of the answers involved not the ingredient, but where to find it or how to acquire it.

The third portion of the test was how to make the potions. The instructor would just shout the name of a potion, and Geralt had to scribble down how to make it. Alternatively, a list of ingredients was provided and Geralt had mere seconds to name the potion. There were quite a few times were Geralt was sure the list of ingredients provided would make nothing, so he just wrote _fail_ in scratchy letters, hoping he’d made the right call. Failed potions were just as important to be able to discern, because they could result in death

Finally, in conjunction with the potions, Geralt had to name what the potions were used for. They all had effects, and more important, they had toxicity. Taking too many potions in the wrong order could also result in death; they were powerful things, these potions, and therefore needed to be used with caution. Only in the moments they were needed.

By the time the instructor called the end of the test, Geralt was ready to go straight to bed. He was stiff from how long he’d been sitting, hungry from what meager meal he’d been able to swallow in the short breaks he had and aching up the entirety of his arm. He had covered parchment upon parchment with his answers and was feeling quite proud of himself. He’d done a fine job.

The instructor snatched up his pile of parchment from the desk, then neatly arranged it.

“Good work,” he said. “We’ll let you know the results when we do.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said. He even shook the instructor’s hand.

After that, he was allowed the rest of his day. There wasn’t much of it. Being winter, the sun had gone down quickly. It was too dark to do any proper training, but Geralt was too tired to even think of that. His only goal was heading straight back for the barracks and plopping himself into bed. His stomach had other ideas, but frankly, Geralt didn’t care what his stomach thought. He was too exhausted to even think about eating. He’d never thought that the hardest thing he would do would be to spend a whole day thinking and writing.

Some of the questions had been hard, hard enough that he was _still_ unsure if he’d even understood them properly. It was out of his hands, literally, and he was quickly approaching the barracks. He hurried inside, away from the cold and the darkness, and headed down to his shared room. The torches and the lanterns were still lit, even in the room.

Gardis was already back and asleep. He and Gweld shared the bunk across the room from Geralt’s. In the past year, a couple of new trainees had moved into the room to fill it out. One had taken the top bunk above Geralt, as he still refused to sleep anywhere but Eskel’s old bed. Geralt trudged across the room to that bed; all of the other boys were still out training or finishing their meals. Potions, perhaps. Geralt was one pillow away from going straight to sleep, but he needed to change.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and wormed his way out of his boots and his trousers. He looked up at the sound of someone entering and saw Reven, who looked right through him before stopping at his own bed. Reven had chosen one closer to the door, and on the opposite end of the room from Geralt and his friends. It was better that way.

Gweld came in last, and that was expected. He looked positively awful, but still had a good jump to his step as he made his way down the line of beds. He had the bottom bunk while Gardis had the top; he plopped right down on the end of his bed so he could look at Geralt. He glanced, only momentarily, to where Reven was tucking himself down for the night, then decided he didn’t have the strength in him to be decent to someone who had never so much as smiled at him.

“That was fucking hard,” Gweld said, nearly full volume. “How you feel?”

“Awful,” Geralt said. He dragged his hand down the side of his face, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Never had to think that much in my life.”

Gweld gave a short abortive laugh. “Say that again. Blanked on a few of them.”

Geralt nodded in agreement. There had been one question in particular he’d only known the answer to when break time came three questions later. No time to go back to it. If they couldn’t answer a question at all, they were just supposed to mark a line on the parchment to ensure answers were not connected to the wrong question.

“When do you think we get sent out?”

“Spring. Probably after the rest of the Witchers.”

“Or before,” Gweld offered. “Maybe they send us out first to make sure we don’t get stepped on. We’re practically infants.”

Geralt snorted. “Practically.”

“You alright?”

“I don’t want to leave,” Geralt admitted, finally laying down. He laid on his back with his arms folded behind his head. “I’ve heard that—”

“Eskel hasn’t been doing well?” Gweld said, a bit weakly. “I heard, too. Supposed to have another baby, though.”

“Couple more months,” Geralt grumbled. “I keep thinking about Emiel, too—”

“Will you fucking bleeding hearts shut up, over there?” Reven snapped. “Unlike little miss princess smart up there,” he pointed to Gardis, “some of us aren’t already asleep.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gweld barked back. “Put a pillow on your goddamn head. See what the fuck we care.”

Reven groaned and rolled onto his side, his back to them, and a pillow curved around his head.

“Emiel?” Gweld changed tunes, instantly, as he turned back to Geralt. “What about him?”

“Vesemir said they’d move him to the bastion soon. Just thought I’d want to see him again before I go. In case I don’t come back.” Geralt had the thought several times a day, almost, that he wouldn’t come back to Kaer Morhen because he’d died. He would give it his best to stay alive, but the unthinkable could always happen. If it did, he would have liked to die having seen his family one last time.

“Don’t think so grim. You’re the best of us. Gonna make it back. Gonna see your kid again, and Eskel. It’ll be great. I thought we were gonna be a pack.”

“A pack?” Reven hollered. “That’s fucking rich—will you shut _up_?”

“Yeah, and you’re not fucking invited!” Gweld responded, then rolled his eyes. “You shut up, princess.”

“Right,” Geralt said. “A pack.” He was looking forward to the idea. Just like Gardis said, even if it weren’t anything _intense_ , they could be something. Family. Geralt certainly wouldn’t have minded if it became something more intense, either. Before they could get there: they all needed to survive, they needed to get Eskel, and they needed a place to go. Not necessarily in that order, Geralt figured they’d pick the easiest, first.

“We’ll be fine,” Gweld said. “Probably best to get some fucking sleep before prissy pants over there blows his fucking top at us.”

They both heard Reven snort. What he was going to do when the rest of the boys came in for the night was beyond them, but they both hunkered down for a night of sleep. They were exhausted enough that it would come quick, easy, and hard. Even when the rest of the boys came in for the night, nobody stirred.

The winter feast was extravagant, as always, and then some. The whole hall was alight with smells and torches and a roaring fireplace. Fit for a king, it was, and all of the Witchers gathered there. There was ale and white gull, food stacked up in mounds. Everyone gathered in their spots, their groups, and the room was filled with the idle chatter and laughter of half-drunken men glad to be home for the winter. The winter feast always ended in more than one scuffle. Witchers would try and take the service women to bed with them, and some would even succeed. Even a mage or two could let down their strict decorum.

Geralt might have joined in the fun. He was plenty old enough to join in, and there were more than a few people who eyed him as they passed. He, however, hadn’t even so much taken a sip of ale. He’d eaten what little food he could muster and had therein so far spent the night listening to Gweld’s drunken attempts at flirting with, quite literally, anything that moved. At some point Geralt was sure Gweld was flirting with his own shadow; the white gull had gone straight to his dick, among other things.

Geralt didn’t know how to relax, anymore. He’d been strung up a worrying wall since he was fifteen. He would be twenty in the spring, and it almost felt like a dream. A nightmare. Eskel should have been there with him, but instead, he was hearing how Eskel’s condition was deteriorating quickly. He was alive, and no one thought that he was going to die—whether that was a good thing, or a bad thing was left to the person asked at the time. He was receiving the best care possible, and still, they were already talking about having to cut the next baby out of him.

And that made it sound like they were expecting him to die. They didn’t cut babies out of their mothers if their mother was _alive_.

“Geralt!” Vesemir’s voice rang out from across the hall, and Geralt turned to it, immediately. Better this than his own thoughts.

“See you guys later,” Geralt muttered, pulling himself up to his feet. He patted Gardis on the back, who’d been sitting next to him, and left them both to their drunken escapades. He hurried across the room to Vesemir, who led him just outside of the mess hall by the shoulder. They stopped right against the wall, just out of earshot of the loud, drunken mess inside.

“Figured I’d let you know early,” Vesemir started. “Nothing official until tomorrow, but you passed. You all did, actually, but I wanted to tell you, first.”

Geralt stared up at Vesemir. He couldn’t even muster the words. He thought his initial reaction might be excitement, but it was just. Dread. He was going to have to leave Eskel—he wouldn’t have a _choice_ in the matter. In that moment, he couldn’t think of how stupid his thought process was, only that it was there, and it left him feeling a bit sick in the gut. He hadn’t seen Eskel in months, but his presence here alone could at least help keep Eskel safe. What would happen when he left?

He had to leave. There was no option. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. They would tell him when to leave and where to go, and he would have to do it. Would he even come back? They could tell him he was the best of them as much as they wanted, but until he could go out there and _prove_ it, he wasn’t anything. He was a stupid boy with a sword. He could die out there on the Path, and then what would happen? What would become of his _family_?

“I—” Geralt swallowed. “Can I see Eskel?”

Vesemir shook his head. “Not right now, no. He’s been under constant watch; trying to ensure he’s healthy enough.” Vesemir didn’t have to finish the thought, because Geralt knew. “He’ll survive, boy. He’ll be around a long time; there’s a few of those people that actually care about him.” Vesemir put a firm hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Best you can do for him is make it back in one piece.”

Geralt nodded. “Why are you telling me this, anyway?”

“Because tonight would be a good night to go see your _son_ ,” Vesemir grumbled. “They’re moving him into the bastion in the spring. For the moment, he’s got a makeshift room in that old storage closet.” There was no better time to sneak around Kaer Morhen when the entire keep was feasting and drinking.

“You go on,” Vesemir insisted. “Anyone asks, you turned in early for the night.”

“Thank you—thank you, so much,” Geralt said in a hurry. He ran off without a second word, running off through the snow in the direction of the laboratory.

He barely even stopped to breathe, thankful for the ability to do that. There wasn’t a soul between the mess hall and the laboratory, and not a soul in sight as he approached the storage closet on the western side. It was the same one they’d stashed Emiel away in when it was time to prepare for the grasses. As he got older, _bigger_ , he was just causing issues with the younger ones. He was about to be moved into the bastion, too. This was his short transitional period to a makeshift, cramped crib to having a real bed and real clothes to get dressed into every morning.

Geralt went through the back door, just to ensure that he was safe, and then ensured it was tightly closed and blocked. He could hear little rummaging near the front side of the room. He walked towards it, apprehensive at best. He didn’t know how Emiel would react to him, now. Especially with the year between visits. Would Emiel even recognize him as friendly? Or would he think Geralt had come to harm him? Geralt rounded an old bookshelf, hoping for the former possibility.

Emiel was sitting on the floor, his back up against the boxes that formed the base of his makeshift bed. His medallion was hanging around his neck, almost down to his lap for how long the chain was and how little he was in, in comparison. He was barefoot, wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the laces mostly undone and a pair of loose, puffy breaches. He was playing with broken pieces of wood and an open book. Geralt almost couldn’t believe it; a three-year-old, isolated and left to _this_.

“Emiel?” Geralt tried, quietly. Emiel looked at him, immediately, his big blue eyes gone wide. He didn’t scream, nor did he try to run away. He just stared. “Can I sit with you?”

Emiel nodded. Geralt stepped over to him quickly and quietly, coming to sit down right beside Emiel. Emiel only looked at him for a moment later, then went back to playing his little game. There wasn’t much to it. He was just tossing the little wooden splinters over the book to see where they would land. The poor boy was bored out of his mind.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked. Emiel just shrugged. “Can I see your book?” Then, a nod. Emiel leaned back against the box-base of his bed and traded out a wood splinter for holding onto his medallion. Geralt leaned forward and picked up the book.

“A guide to herbal medicine,” Geralt read. “Some interesting reading.”

Emiel shook his head.

“No reading, then.” Geralt set the book down. “Would you like to hear a story?”

That perked Emiel right up. He looked at Geralt with a soft smile on his face and nodded hurriedly. He even scooted closer to Geralt, and then the look on his face changed ever sightly. Geralt looked down at him expectantly. Emiel just. Stared. For a long moment. Taking in everything that Geralt was, now that he could really _see_ something. Geralt with his white hair, his golden eyes, and his pale skin. There was no recognition in the way Emiel looked at him, just confusion.

“Who—who are you?” Emiel whispered.

Geralt swallowed the need to tell Emiel the truth. It wouldn’t do him any good. “I’m a friend of your mommy,” Geralt said.

Emiel’s eyes just lit up. “Mommy?” Something about the fact that Emiel would never forget his mother was a comfort. It meant, should Geralt be able to do the impossible, Emiel would know Eskel. Might even be the comfort that Eskel really needed.

“Yes, you’re mommy. And since he can’t be here to take care of you, then I’m going to try. Is that okay?”

Emiel nodded and scooted a little closer. “Story,” he said. “Tell me story.”

Geralt hummed and leaned back against the boxes. He needed to think of a good story to share. He usually opted for ones that were real, but this time, he thought he might tell a story that was fake. Creativity wasn’t something he often gave himself any merit in, but he could bend the truth a bit.

“Do you know what a Witcher is?”

Emiel shook his head. He wouldn’t remember this story well enough for it to ever mean anything, so Geralt could make up whatever facts he wanted to. Pretend they were real.

“Witchers kill monsters,” he said. He plucked Emiel right off the ground and sat him in his lap. “Protect the world from scary things. Let me tell you about the world’s greatest Witcher. His name is Eskel.”

Emiel settled down against Geralt’s chest, chewing on his medallion. He listened, dutifully, to ever half-truth Geralt told him. Geralt even managed to fashion it into a story of sorts, like Eskel _was_ out there slaying monsters and turning his name into legend. He took Eskel’s proficiency with signs and turned it into expert magic use. Eskel could handle a sword with more skill than anyone Geralt had met—even if Eskel hadn’t so much as seen a sword in years. He destroyed monsters and kept the people safe.

As the story continued, where Geralt began to pepper in things he’d heard the older Witchers talking about, Emiel yawned. It was late enough in the evening that he should have been in bed, anyway, but there was no one ever here to keep him to a schedule. He was given food and left alone. He’d already been sleepy, with no desire to go to bed, but Geralt’s story was changing that. It was exciting, but Emiel was overwhelmed just listening to the sound of Geralt’s voice, the rumble in his chest when he spoke.

Geralt shifted Emiel in his arms so he could stand easily, then turned to lay Emiel down in his makeshift little bed. He sat down on the edge to tuck Emiel in, ensuring he was covered for the long, cold night. Emiel, nearly immediately, rolled over onto his side and undid all of Geralt’s work. Geralt just smiled and patted Emiel’s back.

“After that,” he continued, “the townspeople never heard from the monster again. They praised Eskel for his work and ensured he was well rewarded. A hero.” Geralt smiled, then, curling Emiel’s wavy hair behind his ear. “Are you tired?”

“Mhm.” Emiel nodded. “Sleepy.”

Geralt leaned down, unable to help himself, and kissed Emiel on the temple. By then, Emiel had closed his eyes. He didn’t even notice, and if he did, he didn’t care. He was just happy to have some attention.

“I’ll tell you more stories soon, okay? Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Emiel hummed, snuggling down. He had his medallion, a nice story, and a good blanket to keep him warm. That was really all he needed.

Geralt stayed there, on the side of Emiel’s makeshift little bed, until he fell asleep. After that, Geralt removed himself from the room quietly. It was probably the last chance he would have to see Emiel until he returned from his first year on the Path. Emiel was a good reason to return, too. He could come back and maybe share some _real_ stories with Emiel. Some stories he might actually remember.

Come the following day, instead of training, the four newest _Witchers_ —official—were gathered up in that same crossroads room without chairs or decoration and given the good news. All four of them had passed, though no indication was given to how _well_ they’d passed. It was left to their own discretion if they wanted to follow up with their results. Then there came time for their instruction; they would leave on given dates based entirely on where they would be going.

Both Reven and Gardis would be staying within Kaedwen. There were always contracts to be found in Kaedwen, though they would be separated to their own regions within. It was a part of the agreement to have a Witcher school here; they trained more Witchers, and some of those Witchers were assigned to keeping Kaedwen free of trouble and monsters.

Gweld and Geralt would be sent out farther. To Redania. Gweld would go no further than Drakenborg, and Geralt would not stop until he’d _passed_ Drakenborg. He would be going the furthest, and thusly, he would leave the earliest.

“You’ll leave when the pass is clear.” Geralt was told. “You’ll be one of the last sent out with the rest of the Witchers.”

Geralt gulped. “Understood,” he replied. That gave him so little time to prepare. The pass rarely cleared on the same day every year. He could be leaving as early as the turn of January. Or later. It all just depended on the timing of the weather. He was either looking at a few weeks or a month, but he was leaving _soon_. None of this had felt real until he’d been told that. Leaving with the rest of the Witchers when the pass cleared. He wouldn’t even be twenty when he stepped out of that gate, but it’d be close enough.

Close enough.

The moment they were dismissed with an intent to return to training, Geralt went to find Vesemir, instead. One day, he wouldn’t be able to just run to Vesemir every time he had a problem. If he had a problem out there, he’d have no one to go to but himself. This was a problem Vesemir could still help with. Or, at the very least, calm him _down_. He was leaving in a month. Maybe a month and a half if the weather really didn’t care for him. But that was essentially seconds in comparison to how long he’d been training.

Vesemir was actively training with another, younger class of Witchers. Geralt should have left, at that point, but he couldn’t. He just stood there at the edge of their space until Vesemir noticed him, and Vesemir wouldn’t ignore him. Vesemir had never ignored him; not when he looked like he was about to bust out of his skin. He set the trainees to their own task for the moment and trudged off through the snow to where Geralt was barely holding himself together.

“I’m leaving practically tomorrow!” Geralt hissed.

Vesemir patted him, hard, on the back. “You are not leaving tomorrow. Pull yourself together, Geralt.”

“What am I supposed to _do_ —?”

“You prepare what you think is necessary to take with you, and then you wait until you’re sent out. If you need help preparing, all you need do is ask. Plenty of Witchers around to give you help on that matter.”

“What about Eskel?”

“You keep asking that question, boy. You know the answer to it.”

Geralt shook his head. “I keep thinking about it.”

“Stop thinking about it, then. I know it’s hard, pup, but you have to.”

How many times could they have this conversation? Geralt rubbed down the front of his face and just sighed. It plagued him, the thoughts of what would happen after he left. By the time he came back, Eskel could be dead and Emiel could be wielding his first practice sword. Eskel could be _dead_.

“Has he improved at all?”

Vesemir nodded. “He has. It’s not a drastic improvement, but they don’t believe he’s going to die. The baby might not be as healthy—”

“I don’t _care_ about the baby,” Geralt hissed. “He shouldn’t be _having_ any babies. Fuck, it’s not right!”

“And you screaming about it doesn’t matter. Think about it like this; you two lived a normal life out there? More than likely you would have acquired him through _sale_ and then spent the rest of your life popping kids out of him because that’s just what _happens_.” Vesemir took Geralt by the shoulder. “I don’t like it. I hate it. I have done everything I can do to fix it, and nothing works. Keep your anger and use it for something good. Screaming is falling on deaf ears, pup.”

Geralt took in one deep breath and nodded.

“He’s lucky to have found an alpha who cares about him,” Vesemir said, squeezing Geralt’s shoulders. “Most omegas can only dream of that.”

Geralt sighed, then. Released the breath that he’d been holding. Vesemir promised to help him prepare for his departure in the late evenings. They could sort through what potions Geralt should just have stocked, look at his weapons and armor and decide what needed repairing and patched before he left. He would be fully prepared to go out there, face monsters, and returned unharmed. He didn’t have to worry. Eskel would be here when he got back. And really, Eskel would be with him out there, too. Geralt already knew he would not leave the keep without Eskel’s cloak.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: graphic violence, mentions of slavery
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, Turkey Day, whatever you celebrate today or this week! I'm personally still celebrating nanowrimo, so check out my twitter and tumblr to see where i'm still posting ;) love u all, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

All of Geralt’s gear had been patched, repaired, replaced, created, and packed. He had enough coin in a pouch to get him where he needed to go, provided he used it wisely, and not a single crown more. He had supplies—a bedroll that he was expected to return in fine condition, a flint and steel, and a knife. Anything else he needed; he was responsible for finding. Kaer Morhen couldn’t provide everything; it wasn’t logistical. They had a great deal of Witchers and not enough coin to go around. That was the life Geralt was entering—never enough coin.

He was set to leave at the morrow, first light. Most of the other Witchers had already gone off, but Geralt’s departure was delayed until the pass had fully cleared. Inexperience would do him no favors, though his first departure was the only one that would be so guided. From therein, it would be his choice when to leave Kaer Morhen and when to return. Returning in the winter was nearly a mandatory thing, but if word were sent ahead that he would not be back, there would be no fanfare about it.

As Vesemir had essentially taken on the role of Geralt’s mentor, he took it upon himself to ensure that Geralt was fully prepared for his first journey onto the Path. He had his gear, his supplies, and the knowledge. The last thing he needed was a bit more difficult to get ready ahead of time. Geralt already knew how to ready a horse, he just had to pick one. It was late evening when Vesemir brought Geralt to the stables, but it was perhaps the most exciting part of the journey, so far.

“Horses can be a loyal beast,” Vesemir said. “You’ll go through hundreds of them in your lifetime, but the first one’s a bit special. Always thought that, anyway.”

Geralt cracked a quick smile.

The stable stank of horse and manure. This was a task that the younger boys tended to deal with, though Geralt had never had much of the privilege. He knew how to ready a horse, knew how to ride one, but he was less familiar with the stabling process. Not that it mattered. Most places took care of this. By the time he needed to take care of it all on his own, he would have learned. He hoped the cottage would have a small stable. The one at Kaer Morhen was massive and housed to capacity. Not all Witchers wanted to take a horse, but those who did had the option.

Geralt needed a horse. He was going all the way to Redania. As far away form Kaer Morhen as they would be willing to send a new Witcher ensured that Geralt could not return for quick visits home, as some Witchers tended to do when they hunted in Kaedwen.

“You’ll want one of these up front here,” Vesemir said, leading Geralt up to the first few stalls. “Stronger. Get you where you need to go.”

Geralt stepped up and looked at them. “Does it really matter?”

“Does it?”

Geralt didn’t think it did, but as he approached the third horse, he stopped. Maybe it did matter. This horse was looking at him. Maybe. He could have been imagining it, but he couldn’t help but feel like this was the horse he would take.

“You’ll have to give her a name,” Vesemir said. Geralt hadn’t even said his choice aloud, but Vesemir could tell by look on his face alone. “Be up before first light to be down here to pack, pup. Best be sleeping early.”

“I still don’t want to go.”

Vesemir slapped an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. They were nearly the same height, now, and Geralt wasn’t quite done growing. “You have to,” Vesemir reminded. “Just come back.”

“Can I see him, then?” Geralt asked.

Vesemir’s hold on his shoulder tightened. “If he’s well enough. I’ll do what I can.”

Geralt sucked in a deep breath and nodded. He could get back here if it meant he could see Eskel. He hadn’t seen Eskel in so long; he was near desperate for it. He didn’t know how he’d respond to finally being in the same room again. He would do his best not to frighten, but it had been so _long_ , already. It’d felt like a decade, really, but Geralt hadn’t been keeping track. Keeping track did nothing for him but harm.

With that business out of the way, Geralt returned to the barracks. He could have gone to the mess hall for a meal, but he wasn’t hungry. If he had less of a mind, he might have tried to see Eskel. Or Emiel. But he just went straight to bed.

Geralt slept for only as long as he needed to, and he did not sleep well. Four or five hour were spent tossing and turning in his bunk, struggling to find comfort enough that he could rest for more than a minute at a time. He hadn’t a clue how much time had passed between brief naps, but that’s all they were. Brief naps with long periods of wakefulness in between. Regardless of his own bodily exhaustion, his mind was awake, feeding him every scenario of the following year.

The monsters were one thing, the beasts. Geralt was almost less afraid of them than he was what seemed an inevitability that Eskel would die. Worse, Eskel would die without him here. Alone, chained up in that room. His mind could concoct every horrible way it could happen, and the worse was always because some reckless alpha _caused_ it. Geralt would have rather faced a thousand dragons in nothing but his smalls than let Eskel die, but he couldn’t do anything. He was leaving at the first light of morning, and that would be it.

The only way to see Eskel was to make it back. They both had to be alive.

When Geralt had finally had enough of this tossing and turning, he just woke up. It was some odd hour of the morning, but that was fine. He had a long journey ahead of him, all the way to Redania; he would find plenty of places to rest along the way, whether that be a nice flat piece of grass or a cheap inn room. He dressed himself and took only a single change of clothes; plenty of waterways out there, too, for which to concern with washing. His armor was the more important bit, and that, he wore strapped down tight.

Witchers wore light armor: hard leather, mostly, with a bit of forged steel here or there. They couldn’t afford the way armor would slow them down. It was better to kill a monster quickly than to linger about hoping that armor would hold; heathers were easier to patch, too. Less expensive.

Once Geralt had his supplies together, the forktail cloak draped over his shoulders, he gathered it all up to make his departure. He bid farewell to no one and simply opted to just leave as quietly as he could manage. Carrying all of his stuff was a bit of complication, but he managed. He didn’t want to deal with tearful separations and the like; everyone else had their own journeys to prepare for. He was just leaving earlier. He carried his things quickly through the barracks and out through the yard.

It was still dark, as Geralt trekked through half-melted snow, from one building to the other. There was scarcely a Witcher awake at this hour, or there shouldn’t have been. Most of them were still sleeping, though Geralt spied a few walking back and forth as he made way to the stable. He wasn’t leaving until first light, but he could be ready for it. Vesemir would likely see him off.

He still hadn’t come up with a name for his horse, but as he began to ready her for the journey, he did certainly begin thinking about it. What did one name a horse, exactly? He started with the blanket over her back, then readied a saddle. He hadn’t always been very good with names, and was, in fact, quite happy that Eskel had gotten to pick the name of their son. He strapped the saddle down and ensured the stirrups were tight. Emiel may yet have a name if Eskel hadn’t just already had one.

Next came the saddle bags. As far as Geralt knew, that was the only name Eskel had come up with, though. The rest of his children, so far, had all been given names by the mages or a caretaker. It was difficult to refer to someone who didn’t have a name, so as much as Geralt was sure Rennes would prefer these children be nameless and faceless, that was a difficult ask. Geralt fumbled with the saddle bags, especially when came time to attach his own satchel and strap down the bed roll, but he managed.

Geralt had gone through the Dreams, which meant he would never have another child. That certainly wouldn’t be something he would have forced Eskel through again, if he didn’t want to, but having a _happy_ memory to attach to it might have been nice. Back with his dream, the cottage by the stream with the waterwheel. That would have been a peaceful place to have a child. Not that it was possible, and if it were, Geralt would be hesitant. Eskel didn’t deserve more pain than he’d already gone through. Yet, there was still time for more.

With the horse properly saddled and bridled, Geralt left the stables. He needed to ensure he had a waterskin and some food in his stomach before he left. There was a rising commotion that caught Geralt’s attention, however, before he could even make it a few feet from the stables. It was still early, though getting closer to the time the keep tended to rise. Still, this sort of commotion wasn’t normal. Not exactly. The sun wasn’t up, so Geralt still had time. He changed direction at the last moment, heading to the left in the same direction as one frantic man.

It became increasingly and more frighteningly clear, with every step, that Geralt was approaching Eskel’s prison. Geralt’s heart might have been racing if that were something it did anymore, but he could still feel the rising panic. The pressure in his veins. This was a commotion that should have been _normal_ , though Geralt hadn’t come this close since the birth of his own child. But this wasn’t normal. There was more running, more shouting.

“Where is Noel?” Geralt recognized Mariette’s voice. “That bastard started this, he can fucking be the one to fix it!”

Mariette saw Geralt, and her look went from anger to something strangely in between that and pure concern. She shouted again that someone might find Noel, but she quickly approached Geralt. Her face was red, and she was breathing hard.

“You cannot—”

“What’s happening?” Geralt interrupted her.

“ _Go_ , boy—” she snapped, but Geralt just pushed passed her. The doors to Eskel’s prison were wide open, and with the chill of the morning breeze, Geralt could smell exactly _nothing_. His face went white. Was Eskel—? No. No. He _couldn_ _’t_ be.

“Eskel!” Geralt shouted for him, readied to run, but didn’t make it more than a step before he was being grabbed by the arm and yanked back. Geralt knew that smell. Vesemir. Vesemir was here. Because who else were they going to call when Kaer Morhen’s only omega was _dying_ but the people in charge.

“It’s just scent blockers, boy—” Mariette barked, but Vesemir waved her away.

“Go deal with the problem! I’ll deal with him.”

Mariette rushed off, then, without a single glance back.

Geralt struggled against Vesemir’s hold. Was it really just scent blockers? For what? To keep curious alphas away? Or was she _lying_ , because Eskel was dead and they didn’t want Geralt to know? He would know. They had a bond. If Eskel was dead, he would feel it miles away. He would know the exact moment that Eskel took his last breath, and it would kill him where he stood. Geralt was hardly breathing, at this point. Vesemir’s arms were around him, keeping him contained. Still. Right there and in the moment.

“It’s time to leave, Geralt,” Vesemir said.

“No—how can I leave now? What is—”

“Eskel is _fine_. He’s got the best care in the world. Best thing you can do now is leave.”

Geralt suddenly broke free of Vesemir’s hold, turning on his heel and stumbling back. He nearly fell, but he caught himself. He was just shaking his head, trying to breathe. As he backed up, every step he took, Vesemir followed. The same step, keeping the distance between them exactly the same until they’d walked just a few feet, then Geralt stopped. He glanced to the side.

“Don’t do anything you’d regret,” Vesemir growled, suddenly. “Geralt, I swear—”

Geralt could see into the room. For the first time in years, he could see into that room. He couldn’t see past the people, to Eskel, but he could hear their panicked squabbling. Noel rushed past Geralt and Vesemir and into the room, carrying a pack with him. Geralt’s heart was in his throat. Eskel was going to have a baby, right now, and then he was going to die. And Vesemir wanted him to _leave_? He couldn’t. No. He couldn’t. He wore it right on his face, and Vesemir saw it before he even took the first step.

Vesemir grabbed Geralt by the wrist and yanked him back, wrenching his arm in such a way that his shoulder cracked. He called for help, and help came. One was sent out to get Geralt’s horse—the only one in the stable prepared to go. The other helped Vesemir drag Geralt to the front.

“Vesemir!” Geralt shouted. “I can’t leave him like that! I can’t—I can’t—”

But Geralt’s shouts fell on deaf ears. By the time he was dragged out towards the gates, his horse was waiting for him there. Vesemir took it from there, grabbing Geralt and forcing him towards the horse. One glance was all it took for Geralt to understand that Vesemir did this without joy. His hands were shaking, and though his touch was rough, it was a roughness designed to hide the truth. That this hurt him as much as it hurt Geralt; maybe even more.

Vesemir had never once been soft on Geralt, not in training, but that never once deterred from the bond they had. Vesemir was more than Geralt’s mentor. Vesemir was the closest thing to a father Geralt would ever have, and in that light, this was the scene of a father forcing his son away from his omega, his mate. It felt more like ripping at the seams of a family than it did ensuring Geralt performed a duty. In the end, it got Geralt on his horse, and that’s what mattered.

“Ride, boy,” Vesemir said. “Don’t you come back until winter; do you hear me? And don’t you die, either. He’s not going to, so death is no quick short cut. You get your ass back here in one piece, and I promise—” Vesemir dug the key out from beneath his jerkin. The brass key to Eskel’s door. No more needed to be said. Geralt had an ally, in Vesemir, not an enemy.

He still didn’t want to go, but he had no choice. When those gates open, Vesemir slapped the horse’s rump and sent her off into a run. Geralt looked back over his shoulders to see the gates of Kaer Morhen close on him. They would not open for him again; not until winter came and he returned victorious or dead.

He had no name for his horse, yet, but he would think of one. He kicked her off, and they started a slow and rather perilous descent down the mountain pass. It would be a slow journey. A slow, arduous, and boring journey. He had his map with him, his supplies, but nothing more to keep him occupied than staring down the path and ensuring they would be able to cross. He had miles and miles to go. It may very well take weeks before he even arrived in Redania, but it was the burden of his first hunt. If he could prove himself, he’d be a real Witcher. He could do whatever he wanted, then.

A day’s travel took him far enough to rest. The morning, he cleaned up his half-frozen camp and set off again. He could only go as far as his horse could take him, and he didn’t intend to wear her out in the mountains. He had a long way to go to Redania, and he intended to make it there without having to spend his coin on a second horse. He’d be a bit pathetic as a Witcher if he did that. Needed to at least make some coin, first. Packing up was at least easier than settling down; he and the horse were off before first light.

He was somewhere fifty miles outside of Kaer Morhen when something stilled his progress. He heard the shriek of a young girl, and he headed his horse off in that direction. It was the first time he could _do_ something at the sound of that horrible, terrified noise. Gods, he’d heard it so many times, before. That helpless, piercing shriek. He could _smell_ what he was coming into before he ever got there, because the smell rang more familiar than anything he’d run into. An omega in distress.

Geralt pulled his horse to a stop just outside the scene. There was a wagon between him and the people, but he could smell them. See them well enough when the world stilled to his own personal whim. Four men. One was bald with rotting teeth, a crooked mustache and clothes in desperate need of a wash. He must have stood nearly six feet tall with defined muscles. Strong yet so weak that the fibers of those muscles showed through his tautly pulled skin. He was an alpha. A rotting, stinking alpha.

There were two other men, beta lackeys in varying degrees of ugliness. They were holding the fourth man, a man who looked with more worry than he smelled. He smelled like he was a part of the whole deal, only something had gone wrong. He was struggling to get out of their hold. Struggling to get the girl lying flat in the grass, screaming as the bald man descended on her. Her dress was ripped, hair mussed, and panties thrown off near a tree.

Geralt threw himself down from his horse almost immediately. There was an omega out there that he couldn’t protect, but this one? This one he could. He didn’t care who the men were, what the situation was, nor even that he wasn’t supposed to _get involved_. Witchers didn’t get involved. They worked for coin, not out of the kindness of their heart. But that girl was screaming.

“No—No! Stop, _please!_ Father!” She shrieked, but the bald-headed man pressed her down into the dirt.

“This wasn’t the deal!” Father—presumably—shouted. The bald man wasn’t listening.

He wedged himself up between the girl’s spread and bruised legs, a thick hand around her neck to keep her still.

“Just a little _taste,_ _”_ he hissed, and his hand was between her thighs in the next instant.

Geralt struck. He’d been unnoticed and rushed from his horse, around the wagon, and struck. He took his sword from his back and thrust it right through the man’s skull. Geralt didn’t even break a sweat. Didn’t grunt. Blood spattered, bone and brain matter. The poor girl shrieked, but the bald men fell away from her. Dead. Bleeding into the grass, twitching in those last moments of shock, but dead. Geralt stepped around the girl, then, wiping his sword on his leather gauntlets and moving to strike at the other two men.

They let go of the father, instantly, and ran. They shouted as they did, leaving behind whatever belonged to them in their panic to get away. It was fear. The distinct smell of _fear_ filled the air around them, the men’s screams echoing back. The father ran, too. Geralt stood there, almost in disbelief, as the _father_ ran from the scene. Screaming and shouting and panicked just like the rest of them. And then he remembered— _a part of the deal_. What deal?

Geralt turned back to the girl, who had at least sat back up. She was peppered with blood, from her face to the beige of her dress. She wiped it off on her hands, then looked at it. She looked at Geralt. Geralt sheathed his sword quickly and went to the girl, hoping to help her. He’d take her into town, if she needed, find a place for her. But as he approached her, her eyes went wide, and she began to tremble.

“D-Don’t touch me!” She shouted. She _stank_ if distress, of fear. “G-get away from me, monster!” Her screams turned hysterical, and when she finally got herself up to her hands and knees, all she could manage to do was vomit. She fell down into the grass a moment later, eyes closed, and face smeared with her own bile.

Geralt stilled where he stood, staring. Monster. He’d saved that girl’s life, and that’s what he was? A monster. He’d _killed_ the monster. The brutish man acted like he had some sort of right to just take, and he’d tried. The only reason the girl wasn’t dead was because Geralt had heard her shriek. Come to her aid. But he was the monster.

He walked over to the wagon, trying to ignore the stirring in his gut. Is that what Eskel thought of him, too? A monster. The last memory of him that Eskel would have was that horrid, panicked moment with a knife to his face. Eskel would remember the knife, and he would remember Geralt being there. Rennes’ words that it was all Geralt’s fault. If Geralt hadn’t this or that, then Eskel wouldn’t have been punished. Geralt swallowed down the lump in his throat.

He searched the wagon for anything that might be useful, but all he found was a horror show. The back of the wagon was fitted with chains and a tattered bedroll. It smelled like the whole scene had, of fear and sex and rot. It was the most disgusting thing Geralt had ever wandered upon; his sense of smell was so painfully acute that even the dullest scents set him off. _This_ he could have smelled for miles away, and it would have made him sick.

He’d heard about the slave trades from the Witchers’ stories in the winter. Only fifty or so miles from Kaer Morhen, and he’d stumbled right into something similar. Something that was involved. That man was about to sell his own daughter for a quick coin. The very idea—Geralt couldn’t get the girl’s shrieks out of his mind, but not the first ones. The ones directed specifically at him. She’d been horrified by him, the very sight of him. His pale skin, his white hair, the golden eyes, and even the Witcher medallion that now hung around his neck. His very own.

Geralt grabbed it. Squeezed it in his palm until it hurt. It depicted the visage of a wolf, and it meant he was a Witcher. He wouldn’t have any credibility as one until he could return that winter with his head still attached to his shoulders, but the world didn’t know that. They just saw a tall, hulking man with a wolf’s medallion and unnatural features. And he frightened them. He would frighten all of them. Did he frighten Eskel?

There was nothing to be found in the wagon except repulsiveness, so Geralt left it. He left the girl. He climbed back on his horse and kicked off, down the path. He still had an incredibly long way to go, and he wasn’t going to stop again. Shrieks or not, Witchers helped for coin. Coin was all that made the gawking and the monster-calling worth it.

The only thing that gave Geralt pause after that was stopping for a camp. He followed the line of the river as a guide and stopped at one night at a cove where the river took a sharp turn southward. From here, to keep a straighter path, he would only need to keep the river within his sights. Following it would make the trip too winding, but he knew the way well enough to venture farther into open land. This place looked cozy enough for a night’s stop, and his horse needed rest as much as she needed a name.

Geralt jumped down and removed her bridle, that she could drink from the river unobstructed. It was with a loose bit of rope that he tied her to a tree, but she had enough leeway on it to wander the full length of their camp, which wasn’t large. Geralt wouldn’t camp directly on the edge of the river, but he was nearby beneath the protective awning of trees. His horse could go all the way down to the water when she found the need, and Geralt could set himself up on mostly flat ground _not_ covered in gravel.

Once the bedroll was down, Geralt set out to having some real food for the night. He’d been subsisting on mushrooms and herbs, really, much too weary to try for any real hunting. But fishing was easier. He just had to wait for something to come to him.

“Lonely out here,” Geralt muttered, looking to his horse. She, of course, could not respond. She was just standing there, chewing at the grass periodically. Geralt had found himself a particularly comfortable log to sit on and intended to sit there until he found the strength to go down to the riverbed and fish. He was comfortable where he was, despite the odds for comfort out in the wild, and wearing Eskel’s cloak pinched tightly around his shoulders.

He was entirely alone, he realized then. In Kaer Morhen, he could make an idle comment and, most of the time, expect a response. Gweld or Gardis were always near, and if they weren’t, other Witchers were. Vesemir. There had even been a few nights in hiding he’d just mumbled to himself and Emiel, smart as a whip as he was, had just said something. Emiel would have never been able to come out here with him, but Geralt and Eskel had planned to do this _together_.

Had Gweld even left, yet? He’d also been sent to Redania. There’d be no way they’d ever meet on the road with Geralt being sent first and Gweld being a slower traveler, and even when they got there, Gweld’s destination was closer. Geralt would have no friends on the Path; maybe it was a harsh lesson in reality, that they didn’t have companions or friends, but it felt unnecessary. That felt like it should have been a lesson learned in time, but here Geralt was, alone.

He would be in Redania by the time he turned twenty; perhaps, then, he would treat himself with something from a town with a bit of coin. Someone might have told him the best gift he could give to himself on the road would be a whore, but Geralt wouldn’t. He’d been celibate for the last five years, save the occasional use of his own hand when nights were particularly rough. He wouldn’t betray what scraps of a relationship he still had left. If he had one, left, at all.

It might have even been nice, he thought, to finally get to sink his cock into something again. It’d only ever been the once, with Eskel, wrapped up in each other in that room. He still remembered how it felt. Every second of it; Eskel’s scent had consumed him, made him near rabid with his need to have and to take and to give. The _feeling_ of Eskel around him, the slick passage of his cunt. Geralt squeezed his own cock, trying to calm himself down. What an awful thing to think about given Eskel’s situation.

If Geralt ever got him out of there—and he would, he just knew that he would—the chances of Eskel ever wanting to even be _touched_ again were slim, at best. Probably nonexistent. If Geralt’s alpha nature alone didn’t fright him, Geralt would be shocked. Happy, but shocked. He shouldn’t use that as an excuse to fantasize, either. The Eskel at that time, though, he’d wanted it. He’d had his arms around Geralt’s neck, his thighs around Geralt’s waist.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, dropping his head into his hand. “Need to get fishing.” His stomach growled in agreement, and he could focus on that instead of the incessant press of his cock. If he ever had Eskel like that again, it would be worth it to tell him he’d never had another person in his bed. Never been in another’s bed, either. He’d bitten Eskel because he loved him, not because he desired the ownership of a submissive baby-maker.

This was why Witchers paid for their affection, Geralt supposed. He finally pushed himself off his ass and grabbed his meager-made net. The horse stayed where she was, barely passing a glance to Geralt as he walked heavily down to the riverbank, clomping his boots as he went. There wasn’t any place so convenient to sit down here, but he squatted at the edge of the water once he’d thrown his net into the water. He needed to build a fire; probably should have built one already, but he’d been a bit distracted.

Even now, he was distracted, thinking of Eskel. He remembered, too, when Eskel had come to him and asked to talk. They’d gone off to that private room, and Eskel—by the gods, Eskel had been beautiful. Maybe he would prefer a different word: striking or handsome, but beautiful was the only one that came to mind. Wearing nothing but his smalls, the slight bump in his belly and the growing tit mounts on his chest. Geralt would have loved nothing more than to lay Eskel down and just look at him, like that. The perfect picture. If only it hadn’t gone up in flames.

Pregnancy was supposed to be a happy thing, but it sure seemed to be Eskel’s nightmare, now. He hadn’t even wanted to have the first child, but they’d made their mistakes, the both of them, and now they did lie. It still should have been something happy, something they could have shared together. Geralt would never not be angry that he’d missed it. The only chance they had, wasted, and their son taken.

Geralt tugged back his net and found it empty. He threw it again, slightly farther down the river’s bend, and tried once more. It took three tosses of his net before he caught something; a meager catch with just two small fish, but it would do. He just needed to remember exactly how to go about cleaning them so he _could_ eat. It’d been awhile since he’d practiced survival skills; just more things that were lessons better learned in time. Geralt had all the time in the world, now. Hundreds of years of time, if he did things right.

He stood there at the riverbank with his fish, then looked back up the subtle hill to his horse. He tilted his head, looking at her. She had a chestnut coat, dark hair and eyes. She was looking back at Geralt, or at least, he thought she might be. It was hard to tell how human animals actually were. It was plenty easy to see a man as a monster, but much harder to see a monster as a man.

“I think I’ll call you Roach,” he said. “The fish, not the bug. Nobody likes the bugs.” He trudged up the small hill and back to his camp.

He sat down on his log and made quick work of killing the fish. He used his knife to gut them open, spilling out the entrails to be tossed later back into the water. He realized, then, he might have just cleaned them where he was, but he was new to this. He would figure out the efficient way to get things sorted with time, and when he wasn’t so distracted with _thoughts_ and a lingering need in his groin. He needed to make a fire first, anyway, and ensure it was burning strong before the fish would even matter. He wasn’t about to eat raw fish.

The fire was roaring by the time Geralt went back down to the river to clean his catch. Then, he trudged right back up. The horse, or Roach, as she was now, had moved closer into the camp for the warmth of the fire. Geralt sat back on his log and readied his fish. He had to hold them over the fire, himself, but he would eventually come into procession of better cooking gear. Maybe some twine to tie together sticks to hold more sticks for him, anyway. He just didn’t have anything.

“I’ll get better at this, won’t I?” Geralt looked over to Roach, then snorted. “Have to. Can’t be _bad_ at something if you do it for fifty years. At least until I die, maybe. Could be tomorrow.” He shrugged. If he were a worser man than he was, he might have just laid over and let it happen. He didn’t have much, but he did have something to make it home for.

He needed to make coin. His eyes went wide, suddenly, as he remembered. Even if Gweld and Gardis didn’t remember, he was. He needed to make coin. Enough coin that he could bring some of it back to Kaer Morhen and not be questioned, but enough, too, that he could stash it away for himself. Once he had enough coin, he would buy a cottage somewhere. Somewhere warm by the water that Eskel would love. That was the first step; get Eskel out was the second step. Couldn’t do the second without the first.

Geralt was suddenly tearing through his things to find his map. He left his fish on the stick, balanced precariously on the edge of his log, and spread his map out on his lap. He was going to Redania, but _where_ in Redania? He didn’t really have much of a plan, save for, now, he needed to find his way to the main roads. His line in the sand had been drawn at Drakenborg, which meant he had to go farther. That left Rinde out of the equation as a destination. The next largest place was Oxenfurt, and Geralt just looked over that. That left him with Novigrad, at the end of the roads.

He didn’t know much about the towns, villages, cities, or other little back-water places around the area. He just knew that a bigger city meant, potentially, bigger problems. Even if it didn’t, it could mean a whole host of ability to _find_ problems. Merchants must have gathered there, and merchants knew things. Knew more things than inn keepers and tavern wenches did, anyway. They traveled more. It was the perfect place to go, even if it were as far as he could have possibly gone.

Coin was of utmost importance. He couldn’t imagine a better place to find it than a city like Novigrad. If he were lucky, too, there’d be plenty of stops along the way to find things. They’d told him he had to _hunt_ in Redania; they didn’t tell him he couldn’t take a contract here or there, especially since he was out here first. Just one or two. The ones he knew he’d be able to handle, as if he really had a good grasp on that.

Geralt’s first real contract turned out to be entirely nothing, but the coin had been paid in advance, so he had it. The townspeople had been complaining about something eating their crops at night—stealing, as one ugly old man said. Something was stealing their crops and eating it. Geralt was paid to stay up all night and watch, only to see a nice herd of deer more in, eat the crops, and then leave. He got one-hundred crowns for telling the townspeople to build better fences, and they did seem to genuinely appreciate the advice.

He wasn’t _supposed_ to take money up front, but they’d been so desperate. Nobody was going to find out what he’d done; it wasn’t as if one of the townspeople was going to write a letter straight to Rennes telling him that Geralt had taken coin up front. Geralt _needed_ the coin, and he didn’t care how he got it.

The next stop wasn’t quite so friendly; Geralt had been in the town for only a moment before being jeered at, ridiculed. They did, however, have a drowner problem. It was a small little town of just a few houses and farms right on the edge of the river, so Geralt certainly didn’t _doubt_ they had a drowner problem. More than happy to take care of it. These people were crude, and Geralt was going to have to get his coin the old-fashioned way. He’d cut one of those drowner’s heads right off and bring it back, throw it on their musty tables, and take his coin.

He needed to do better than desperation. Being a _bad_ Witcher wasn’t going to help him, either; this was his livelihood. It was his livelihood whether he wanted it to be or not. All that mattered was doing what needed to be done, but if he were to obtain a reputation of taking the coin and ditching a job, that would be the end of that, anyway. This was something more normal to expect, and he should expect it. He should even want it. If he could become the best Witcher in the world—he’d have all the coin he needed.

Geralt killed the drowners. Five of them for one-hundred and thirty crowns a head. He brought back all five heads, dropped them on those musty tables, and took his coin. He’d use it to buy some food and a room for a night; he’d been sleeping on grass for too many weeks, and he was ready for something more.

He certainly took a look at a woman, who was looking at him. She smelled of nothing, a beta, probably. It was harder to tell out here where everything and everything else was happening all at once, on top of everything. Smells were a bit harder to discern, but Geralt was learning. He wasn’t quite as overwhelmed as he was the first time, though he was sure he would only get more overwhelmed as he moved closer to Novigrad. This woman dressed like a whore, and Geralt had looked at her.

She’d offered, because that’s what whores did. Geralt wasn’t bad looking, either, and she could clearly look past the white hair and the golden eyes. It was _dangerous_ , she said, to sleep with a Witcher. She had four notches in her post and wanted Geralt to be the fifth. With Eskel in the back of his mind, he declined. That night, he fucked into his own fist until he spent on the bed linens, Eskel’s name on his lips. And he felt disgusting when he was done, so instead of sleeping, he mediated.

Geralt found a total of four contracts on his way to Novigrad he figured no one would miss. Two of those were in Redania, and Gweld _certainly_ wouldn’t have wanted to wade through waist-deep water to kill something for a meager amount of coin. But Geralt was willing, because he was desperate. Eventually though, after weeks of travel, Geralt found himself in the exact place he wanted to go. Novigrad.

The place smelled like piss and shit and ale and anything else Geralt could have ever imagined. Beneath the stench was the smell of mingling people. Alphas, betas, and a rare omega all thrown together in one spot. Dwarfs, elves, and humans, too. All mingled together in what looked to be one massive shithole of a city. But it was a city, and when Geralt walked through it, leading Roach by her reigns, no one stopped him. He was not the first Witcher they’d ever seen, and nor would he be the last.

He was here looking for work. Any sort of work he could find or could be sent to. He had absolutely no mind for anything else, and the type of work didn’t matter. They could send him out to do the most dangerous thing possible, and he would do it. He would spend all year, here, in Redania, doing the most dangerous things he could find. He doubted he would have enough to buy land by the end of a single year, alone, but he would work desperately for that money.

Nothing else mattered.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: rape (skip to "Rennes called for Eskel to be taken care of" to avoid), violence, threats of bodily harm, threats in general, male lactation
> 
> I started working on ch41 yesterday, am 10 chapters ahead in posting on my other site, and am about 15 chapters ahead in editing, so I kinda forgot this chapter existed. There is an emotional plot point to the first scene, but if you really do not want to read it, please go ahead and skip it. The rest of the chapter is tame and brings up other important things. Thanks guys ;3c hope you all continue to enjoy!
> 
> But! Happy December everyone :) stay tuned this month for a holiday miracle

The slamming of the door wasn’t enough to even make Eskel open his eyes, anymore. He wasn’t asleep, just far too weak to consider movement. His hands were chained, pulled taught above his head, but just loose enough that his elbows bent. He was lying on the bed, face resting on his shoulder. It’d been awhile since anyone had gotten _properly_ violent with him; the bite marks that hadn’t disappeared were on their way to disappearing. None of them scarred, because he already had one pesky bite scar on the back of his neck.

Rennes locked the door, then jostled it to ensure it would _stay_ closed. The room smelled pristinely clean, and so did Eskel. Beneath the smell of sanitation, however, was just what Rennes expected there to be. He’d authorized a _break_ , of sorts, after Eskel nearly pulled a brush with death just to give them another useless girl. However, with _Geralt_ gone, Rennes thought he owed himself a bit of something. With one word, he’d had Noel back in here slipping Eskel his potions.

Eskel’s new heat was barely beginning, but it was beginning. Then, the potion that made him delirious, loose, and wet. Rennes could already see the effects working. Eskel hardly had the strength to move, so his thighs were fallen open. His useless little cocklet was limp, but his cunt was practically glistening. Thick, swollen lips slightly parted to reveal the slow seep of slick that dripped through his slit and down the stretch of skin beneath. The subtle smell of arousal was beginning to fill the air, and Rennes didn’t care how artificial it was.

It smelled just as sweet, just as enticing. Rennes’ cock was already stirring in his breeches. He stepped up to the edge of the bed, and his scent alone roused Eskel. His eyes didn’t open, but he shifted, moved, and Rennes could see the horrid scabbing and rawness on the side of his face. It had taken ages to look like that, and it would take ages more before the scars healed properly. Seeing them again had Rennes growling in his throat; a jolt of pleasure shot down his spine and left him _wanting_.

He pulled off his shirt before he approached again, and this time, he walked until his legs were flush with the end of the bed. Closer, still, so Eskel shifted again. The look on his face was putrid, like he was smelling something awful. Any alpha who came in here was awful, but Eskel knew who Rennes was. Knew what he’d done.

“Geralt’s finally gone,” Rennes said, dragging feather touches down Eskel’s shin. “Left about a week ago.”

The _whimper_ that came out of Eskel’s throat, it was like he wasn’t even aware of the sound he made. Just an instinctive noise made at the loss of his alpha.

“Did he not come to say goodbye? That’s a shame,” Rennes continued. He walked along the side of the bed, tugging at his laces as he did. “You know what they say about young love, though, don’t you?” Once he was stark naked, Rennes sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in, grabbing Eskel’s jaw and wrenching his head forward. “That it never lasts?” Rennes hissed. He kissed Eskel immediately, and Eskel nearly squealed with his displeasure.

All of the noises he made were disjointed and broken from a throat that hardly worked. Eskel never talked, anymore, just made _noise_ , because it was all he could do. Perfect little omegan noises that didn’t suit how he looked but sounded so deliriously perfect. Eskel was supposed to be on a _break_ , because his stupidly fragile body needed one. Rennes had all the time in the world to wrench out those noises. He kissed Eskel harder, felt the tremors through his body that it caused, and growled right into his lips.

“You can feel those disgusting scars,” Rennes spat. “What’s Geralt ever going to want with you again, now that you’re not pretty?” He tilted Eskel’s head from side to side, making a show of inspecting him. Eskel might have looked nice, once. Rennes remembered the first time he couldn’t help himself, needed to visit their very own kept omega. Eskel had been pretty, then, the sort of prettiness that came from youth. Eskel was twenty, now, a full adult who might have been out on the Path if he didn’t have such delicious, more important uses.

Finally, Rennes pulled himself up onto the bed. Eskel had very freshly given birth, and he smelled like it— _looked_ like it with the little tits on his chest having grown in. Rennes straddled over Eskel’s waist and took hold of his own cock, stroking himself. He was aching for this; he’d been thinking about it for days, at the very least. How much time he’d have, all to himself, in here. Geralt was gone. There was something devilishly satisfying about seeing the look on Eskel’s face as that fact became truer with every injustice he suffered.

“What if I made you mine?” Rennes rumbled, bending over to nose along Eskel’s jaw and smell his sudden terror. Putrid and perfect. Rennes’ hips bucked on their own. “Flip you over right now and bite that mark of yours until mine takes, instead. It’s possible, you know—to re-bond an omega.”

Eskel shuddered, his head shaking ever so slightly. His eyes opened weakly, and Rennes grinned.

“How would it feel to be begging for me? Your poor Geralt doesn’t see you,” Rennes stroked the scars on the side of Eskel’s face, “and you still beg for him. I would be in here with you every day.”

Eskel whined, again, and shook his head. “Geralt…” he muttered, though his voice was weak.

“Probably doesn’t even think about you, anymore,” Rennes said. Oh, he was hard, now. Fully erect, thick between his thighs, and ready. Eskel couldn’t _do_ anything but lay there and take it, and that had Rennes’ whole body suddenly aflame. He’d done such a good job with this one.

He situated himself over Eskel’s ribcage and pressed the length of his cock along Eskel’s sternum. Eskel’s body jolted, instantly, at an unwanted touch. The touch of an alpha that wasn’t _his_. Even if Eskel wanted this with all his heart and soul, and Rennes took pleasure in knowing he didn’t, his body would still react the same.

“It wouldn’t be any _fun_ to bite you,” Rennes said.

He cupped Eskel’s perky little tits in his hands, squeezing and massaging the bottom of their swell. Eskel practically whimpered, and the scent of slick grew stronger, as did that delicious smell of distress and hatred. It sent a pulse through Rennes’ cock, and he dripped with precum. He squeezed Eskel’s tits hard, and Eskel cried out. Whimpered. Milk dribbled down from his nipples, and Rennes licked his lips at the sight. He pressed Eskel’s tits together, around his cock, and fucked his hips forward.

The drag of his skin between Eskel’s tits was magnificent, perfect. Rennes rolled his head back and groaned, deep in his gut, as he fucked forward. He could feel the milk dribbling down, easing his passage. He groaned at the feeling, working his hips faster. He squeezed Eskel’s tits around—everything was _tight_ and wet. Perfect. His whole body was thrumming with it: his eyes closed tightly, and his lips parted. He listened to each one of Eskel’s little abortive noises, and they made it all so much better.

The soft feeling of Eskel’s skin against the rough of his own cock was enough to have him peeking over the edge almost too quickly. Rennes grunted, working his hips faster. He watched it all, too, the way the head of his cock revealed itself and disappeared. Angry and red and dripping in precum, precum mixed with Eskel’s milk. The smell was glorious, and it flooded through Rennes’ system. Made him hot, made him _weak_ to continue. If Eskel wasn’t so damn enticing, maybe he could stop, but the noises that omega made.

Rennes groaned as he came, cock sputtering and spasming as he came over Eskel’s chest, right through the wrapped heat of his tits. His cum streamed over Eskel’s neck, on his chin, and Rennes didn’t stop moving until his orgasm had finished, left him shaking ever so slightly with the pleasure. Only then did he let go of Eskel’s chest and slide back. The _mess_ he left there was so impressive, such a disgusting mix of white fluid. Rennes ran his fingers through it, the spend and the milk.

He grabbed Eskel by the jaw and forced his lips apart. Eskel whined, groaned, tried to shake himself free—but he couldn’t. Wasn’t strong enough, anymore. Rennes forced his fingers right down Eskel’s throat and made him _taste_. Eskel choked on the fingers, spasmed as he tried to get away, but Rennes just fed him more of it. A nasty combination of milk and spend, and Rennes groaned as he watched Eskel gag on it, his eyes closed tightly.

“That fucking smell,” Rennes marveled. “You smell like a goddamn whore—though, I guess you are, aren’t you? Even if your precious Geralt still cared about you, do you think he’d even _want_ you?”

Rennes shifted down Eskel’s body and stopped only to grab Eskel’s tits again, squeeze them hard enough that Eskel nearly shouted. Rennes pinched his nipples, already swollen and sensitive, until tears were welled up in his eyes. Eskel gagged, again, throwing his head to the side. His body bucked weakly, abortively. He wanted Rennes gone, but he didn’t have the strength to make it happen. He could only lay there, feel Rennes’ nails digging into his areola and _cry_. It hurt. It hurt, and then Rennes was dragging his nails down the curve of his breasts and into his ribcage, his stomach.

“You’re fucking ruined,” Rennes said. “How many children have you had, now? Five? You must be so fucking loose.” Rennes slipped down until he was settled between Eskel’s thighs. “Should we stitch you back up?” He hummed, and Eskel whimpered again.

Eskel’s cunt was dripping in slick, wetting the sheets with it. He was swollen and red, kept freshly shaved and _lovely_ , always. Rennes ran his fingers down the skin, pinching and spreading Eskel open. He whimpered, but Rennes wasn’t listening. He spread his thumb down through Eskel’s slit and stopped right at the bottom of his leaking hole, where he pinched, again. Eskel nearly shouted as the pain shot up through his limbs. Everything was sore, but _that_ —

“Right here,” Rennes said. “Put you to sleep, a few stitches. You’ll never be loose again.”

“ _Please_ —” Eskel rasped, “—don’t.”

Rennes chuckled deeply, warm and straight from the belly. “Sweet that you think you have any say in what I do.” He ran his hands up Eskel’s thighs in mock comfort, then grabbed whatever meat of them was left and _squeezed._ Eskel shouted, hips bucking. “I could order your limbs cut off, and no one would question it.”

Eskel whimpered, tilting his head to the side, trying to hide in the crook of his shoulder. Rennes laughed again, laughed at him. Eskel couldn’t do anything. No one could _do_ anything. There’d been plenty of nights where Mariette or Vesemir had sat at his bedside and tried to tell him things would be okay—they would get _better_ , but nothing would. Eskel had no choice, had no say. He couldn’t even get away when Rennes dragged his nails through his cunt.

Rennes teased at the skin, pulling Eskel open practically layer by layer, his nails always present. Every touch was sharp, painful, but Eskel’s voice was already near lost to him. He was tired. Every single part of his body ached, and Rennes was here to just make it worse. Eskel’s cunt was throbbing by the time Rennes pulled his hand away; the pain was immense. Eskel had gone white with the need to scream, the need to cry, or to vomit, but he didn’t have the strength to do either.

His whole body jolted, tensed up, and arched at the feeling of Rennes’ cock between his folds. Just there. Rubbing through the slick. Eskel swallowed down a hefty gag of bile and just felt it. The thickness of Rennes’ head; he knew it well. Too well. He wished Rennes would just leave him alone, wished they _all_ would, but Rennes was pushing forward. Eskel was covered in his own slick, his own _mess_ , but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, because his body didn’t want this.

Eskel nearly screamed, convulsed, as Rennes breached him. It was a slow, painful push forward so Eskel could feel every inch of Rennes’ cock disappear into him. Rennes pressed down right at the top of Eskel’s pelvis and the pressure had him gasping, writhing to get away. Couldn’t get away. All he could do was _feel_ , tug at his bonds, as Rennes pushed into him. Deeper, deeper, until Rennes’ hips were flush against his. He could feel the tickle of curled pubic hair against his cunt. He only wanted to sob.

“Cry for me,” Rennes muttered. He leaned forward to drag his fingers, wet with slick, across Eskel’s cheek. “Do you think Geralt would even be able to look at you once he knows what you’ve done?”

Eskel whimpered, trying to find purchase in the bed with his heels, but there was no strength in his legs. He hadn’t stood up on his own in years, and it was taking its toll.

“You’ll spread your legs for anyone, won’t you? Fucking whore, you are. How many times have you taken my cock, alone?” Rennes gave an experimental roll of his hips, and Eskel nearly wretched right there. “Can’t be pleasant to take another alpha’s cock, but you’re so desperate for it. Wonder how many whores Geralt’s had by now. Such a good little slut, but you never please your own alpha, do you?”

Eskel choked on his own spit, his own bile. Rennes was moving slowly, on purpose, so Eskel could feel everything. The head of his cock, the ridge between it and the long, thick shaft. The curve. The pulse of Rennes’ cock each time Eskel made a noise, shifted uncomfortably. Rennes wanted to see him cry. Wanted to be the one to _make_ him cry.

Rennes snapped his hips forward, hard, and Eskel yelped. Every fuck of Rennes’ hips was an onslaught, an attack, breaching him right open until he was raw and aching. Rennes dug his fingers into Eskel’s hips, keeping him perfectly still, perfectly in place. He fucked into that heat, harder and harder each time as he let his instincts take over. This was his right, as an alpha, to take whatever he wanted. Whatever omega he wanted. And he wanted this one _desperately_.

Eskel’s cunt spasmed around him, clenched down around Rennes’ cock each time it was forced open, walls forced apart and stretched to accommodate. Eskel _screamed_ when Rennes tilted his hips, fucked over that spot inside of him. It was supposed to make him go weak with pleasure, but it was pure agony. Everything was pain; it hurt. Eskel blubbered, wept, and choked again. And Rennes just kept going. Spurred on by watching the tears drip down Eskel’s cheek, through the smeared slick and the cum on his chin.

Rennes grunted. Groaned. Animalistic noises ripped from his throat as he fucked deeper, harder. He wasn’t going to last much longer, but he kept going. Kept going faster, harder, and when the base of his cock began to swell, he just kept _going_. The knot was forming, still ripping through the rim of Eskel’s cunt and renewing his tears with desperate, pained sobs. Eskel couldn’t relax, even if he wanted to. He could _feel_ Rennes’ knot growing, forcing itself inside and back out.

Every thrust light afire new pain, new ache. It was almost relief when Rennes’ knot finally caught, when he came. He was too unwilling to ruin the experience for himself to rip his knot out of Eskel, and instead let it settle as his orgasm ripped through him. He came hot and white deep inside of Eskel, ground himself there, and made Eskel feel the swell of his cock. Eskel choked on his tears and tried to relax, but his body clenched down and spasmed on its own. Nothing would be enough to force that knot from him, to force Rennes away from him.

“You are so fucking wet,” Rennes groaned. “Next time, I think I’ll fuck you open. No heat. No potion help. Where’s the fun in that?” He grabbed Eskel’s chin and wrenched his head around. He peeled up one of Eskel’s eyelids to make him look. “Gonna fuck you dry, omega,” he said, “until you’re crying, bleeding. And when I’m done, I’ll rip my knot right out of you and make you lick your own bloody slick right off of it.”

Eskel sobbed and tried to shake his head, but Rennes’ grip on his jaw was too tight. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t get away when Rennes squeezed into his cheeks, forced his mouth open, and then _kissed_ him, again. Tongue down his throat. Eskel gagged again, sobbed harder into such a wretched, forced kiss. When Rennes pulled back, the taste of bile too prevalent, he slapped Eskel right across the face.

“Fucking disgusting,” he spat. “No wonder Geralt let the keep have you.”

“No…” Eskel whimpered. Geralt wouldn’t _do_ that. The only happy memory Eskel still had was how Geralt held him, looked so fondly at him. Geralt couldn’t have done this; he didn’t want to believe it. If he lost Geralt, he wouldn’t have anything left.

“Yes, yes,” Rennes laughed. “Geralt said we could have you, and what do we blame him? Disgusting mess like you?”

Rennes didn’t listen to Eskel’s resounding cries, his pleas. Instead, he took interest elsewhere. He cupped Eskel’s little tits again and squeezed. There was another little spurt of milk, and why not? They were going to be tied together until Rennes’ knot went down. It could be minutes. Could be hours. Might as well enjoy himself. Rennes hunched over Eskel like an _animal_ , mouthing over the swell of his right tit. He squeezed the underside, massaging Eskel’s skin almost _kindly_ , until Eskel realized what it was doing.

The milk started to flow, and Rennes sucked it down. He swallowed around Eskel’s nipple, lapping at it, drinking _everything_ he could get. It felt vile. Eskel had hardly gotten to nurse his own _child_ —Geralt’s child. And now Rennes— _Rennes_ of all people, was doing this to him, still grinding his cock into Eskel as he sucked down swallow after swallow of warm, fresh milk.

Eskel was past the sobbing. There were tears just streaming down his cheeks, as that was all he could manage. His eyes were closed tightly, his body trembling with exhaustion, with ache. He’d given up, so long ago, on trying to pretend it was Geralt with him. Geralt wouldn’t _hurt_ him, like he’d been hurt. But it was harder, this time, because this was deceptively sweet. Deceptively kind. Eskel would have let Geralt do this. Might have even asked him to, begged him too.

Eskel hadn’t even realized his choked-out sob of Geralt’s name until Rennes was pulling back, smearing dripped milk into the skin of his breast.

“Geralt isn’t here,” Rennes said. “Left on the Path and didn’t even ask about you.”

Eskel’s breath hitched. It wasn’t true. Geralt wouldn’t do that to him. Geralt loved him. Geralt was going to get him out of here. Geralt was his _alpha_. Another choked outcry and Rennes even smiled.

“You’ve been such a good thing,” Rennes muttered. “You’re excited for my next visit, aren’t you?”

Eskel nodded, frantically. The last time Rennes had asked that, Eskel had said no, and he’d been slapped so hard across the face his teeth had cut into his cheek and his jaw nearly dislocated.

“I—If I’m good,” Eskel croaked.

Rennes hummed in response, intrigued and amused.

“C-can I see my son?” He whispered.

“Which one? You’re a slut, remember? You have three.”

Eskel choked. “E-Emiel. I want to see, Emiel. _Please_ —” it was the most Eskel had said aloud in weeks, and it was beginning to hurt. But he forced through the ache in his throat. He wanted to see Emiel so badly. The other boys, the girls—Eskel didn’t care about them. He cared about Emiel. His baby boy. He wanted Emiel back in his arms, even if just for a moment. “Please,” Eskel cried. “I’ll be so good, please— _please_ , let me see my baby—”

Rennes grabbed his jaw again, effectively shutting him right up. He turned Eskel’s head from one side to the other, looking him over. Then, he spoke.

“What makes you think your child even knows who you are? Let alone wants to see you? You look like a whore, omega. Best you act like one.”

Eskel _sobbed_. Rennes let his face go then pulled back, his knot only half deflated. The ache of it tugging at Eskel’s cunt wasn’t nearly anything compared to hearing _that_. He would never see Emiel again. Emiel didn’t even know him. Didn’t want to see him. Had no _interest_ in him. Eskel couldn’t contain himself, after that. Geralt didn’t want him. Emiel didn’t want him. He had nothing. No one. Whores had their children taken from them, didn’t they? Their dignity, their freedom, their _everything_.

All Eskel had was this dark, dank room. A prison cell. A tomb. He tried to curl up on himself, cold and miserable, but he didn’t have the strength. Couldn’t find the blanket. Rennes left him how he was, covered in spend with it dripping out of his cunt, milk splattered on his chest, and slick on his face. Eskel looked like a whore and thought, maybe, if he’d given in faster, he could have saved himself half the pain.

Rennes called for Eskel to be taken care of, uncaring that others witness the mess that he left. Nobody would dare say anything to him, though he noticed a particular growling look on Mariette’s face as she walked past him and towards the chamber. She’d never _be_ a father, but this smothered mothering thing she’d been doing was the closest she’ ever get to it. Rennes thought she was pathetic and moved on.

Mariette just stood to the side of the room, unable to bring herself to help; all she could do was watch as Eskel was handled, roughly, and cleaned. He was wiped down from head to toe, every crevices and crack of his body wiped down. He whimpered through it, always, especially as the rag dipped through his cunt to clean him of spend and slick. It always took far too long, for Mariette’s liking, to get Eskel cleaned. They couldn’t very well leave him a mess, but he was impossible to get into the bath, anymore. He didn’t have the strength to hold himself up.

“Leave,” Mariette ordered, once they were finished. They did just that, and Mariette took the resounding silence as her cue to step up to the side of Eskel’s bed. She could _smell_ Rennes all over it, and her stomach clenched up in threats to rebel. She swallowed it back down and sat at Eskel’s side, regardless of how little she wanted to be closer to the scent.

“Eskel,” she said, softly. “Eskel, are you still awake?”

Eskel nodded slowly, weakly. “Geralt…” he muttered.

“Geralt’s gone on the Path,” Mariette said. She just stroked the side of Eskel’s face, something comforting. Something a parent might do. “He’ll be back in the winter.”

Eskel sniffed, shifting as best he could. Mariette reached down and pulled the blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders as best she could manage.

“He likely won’t be able to see you,” she said, always firm with her facts, however they tugged at Eskel’s heart. “As for Emiel, he’s been transitioned into the bastion with the boys too young to learn, still. I suspect he’ll begin next spring.”

“Want to see him,” Eskel muttered.

“You won’t,” Mariette promised. “It’s best you don’t, even. He shouldn’t see you like this.”

Eskel whimpered, but he nodded. He understood, really. Emiel shouldn’t ever have to look at him; the knowledge that his mother was a _whore_ wouldn’t do him any good. Eskel was just being selfish by trying to see him. It was better Emiel not know him at all. He’d be a good Witcher. A good, parent-less Witcher like the rest of them.

Mariette stayed right there with Eskel, stroking back his damp hair, until his breathing had evened out. He’d fallen asleep, then, and she ensured the blanket was tucked in enough that any shifting wouldn’t slide it down. It was cold in his chamber, though the blanket would scarcely help. Mariette could smell the fake heat; this was just a lull. Eskel would wake up at some point, overcome with artificial need, and no one would be there to help him.

Once Eskel was asleep, Mariette left. She locked the door, again, and hoped that it might be enough to keep him alone for the moment. His heats were better spent alone, fake or not; it wouldn’t be long until they were picking another alpha boy and sending him in there. Rennes didn’t want Eskel not pregnant for long. And why should he? He was having too much fun with his unchecked abuse. There was nothing any of them could do, though Vesemir seemed content to place his trust in Geralt.

Mariette didn’t consider herself to be a strong woman, but she still wouldn’t trust Geralt farther than she could throw him. As far as she was concerned, it was his fault that Eskel was here. If he could find a way to get Eskel out, then good, but Mariette wasn’t putting any stock in it. She just couldn’t do anything better than slip Eskel a bit of poison with his dinner, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not quite. Not after the scare Eskel had just had.

The worst of it had been that Eskel _knew_ something was wrong. He didn’t seem to know if it was wrong with him or with his baby, but he’d known. The look on his face, wrenched up and terrified, was enough to still any thought Mariette had ever had of just putting him out of his misery. Eskel had enough hope left in him to be _terrified_ to die. His eyes had been so wide, pupils blown, fear strewn all over his face. Eskel didn’t want to die, no matter the pain he faced. He could still a future without it.

Mariette left the chamber and headed back quickly for the laboratory. Noel was as skilled as he was vile, and it was only by Mariette’s quick hand and intimate understanding of his routine that Eskel wasn’t in _more_ pain. A dash of this and that into the potions Noel fed him wouldn’t alter their effects, just add to them. Dull a bit of the pain. She had to ensure that was done before she could do a thing more.

Gweld was sent out a week after Geralt had been, and with much less fanfare. He picked a sturdy horse for himself, named her Butterscotch for a quick laugh, and ensured she was tightly packed before he was ready to head out at first light. First light came a little earlier, closer to spring, and Gweld was off with it. He didn’t bid anyone farewell, nor did he exchange any pleasantries. He just left, the butt of his heel into the horse’s side. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and he intended to get there quickly.

Should he find Geralt on the way, he might consider himself lucky, but he didn’t count on it. Redania was a far way off, and while Kaer Morhen’s gates would open back for Gweld if he decided to visit home before winter, he would not waste his time, like that. The sooner they could all pool their coin together, the sooner things would change. Gweld was ready for things to change.

The whole idea of a pack had been Gardis’ idea, and he’d talked about it one night with Gweld while they were alone, sharpening their swords.

“Think about it,” Gardis had said. “Might be nice, you know? Geralt’s not too hard on the eyes.”

Gweld had snorted. “Is that what you’re looking for? If you wanted to fuck him, all you had to do was ask. I mean,” Gweld had laughed, then, “unless you wanted him to fuck _you._ Do alphas even fuck betas?”

Gardis had shaken his head. “That’s not what this is about,” he had snapped. “This is about something a bit fucking deeper than fucking, if you’re capable of thinking that way.” To that, Gweld had just laughed and laughed some more. “It’s about having someplace to go, people to fucking take care of each other. You really ever want to come back to this fuck hole when we’re free of it?”

That had stilled Gweld, and really made him understand what Gardis was talking about. “No,” he said. “Don’t think I could stomach it.” Especially if Eskel were to die here; that would sully the place for all of them.

“We can’t be so fucking stupid either to think that Eskel can just walk out of here. There’s got to be people with him. He’ll need it. So, with _three_ of us, someone’s always there to make sure he doesn’t fucking die or get hurt.”

“Shit,” Gweld had muttered. He hadn’t thought about that, but Gardis was right. Eskel was going to need time to recover: a lot of time. If Geralt was the only one with him, they’d sooner die without proper coin than they would anything else. Geralt going off to take contracts meant Eskel would be alone. A better scenario, of course, alone with a _child_ , but Eskel was in no condition to be caring for a toddler.

“Do you get it now?”

Gweld had nodded. “I guess the fucking might be an extra bonus, huh?”

Gardis had reached across the way and slapped Gweld right in the back of the head. He was perfectly correct, though. Geralt was pretty easy on the eyes, and if being a pack might have led to a bit of this or that, Gweld certainly wasn’t going to complain. They were all friends; a little friendly fuck here or there never hurt anyone. It just worked the tension out. By the subtle flush on Gardis’ face, Gweld had figured he had the whole situation pretty well figured out.

It was a lofty goal to work towards, and Gweld thought about it as he worked his way down the pass. A pack. He’d never had any illusions about having something like that, for himself. He was a beta, which by nature meant he’d never _have_ a pack, just be a part of one, but it was starting to sound nicer the more he thought of it. And they were all friends. It didn’t have to be a pack borne out of mutual love and affection of anything so romantic or sexual. Just out of the respect and love that came with being friends for so many years.

Spring had already broken by the time Gardis finally left, and he left a bit slower. He had no reason to be kicked out, and he had no reason to rush. He had the whole of Kaedwen; he had to share it with Reven and a few other Witchers, but Kaedwen was a large region. Plenty of monsters, plenty of problems. Kaedwen wasn’t the most inhabited area of the continent, which made it the perfect place for ruffians and rogues to hide out. Monsters came with the unsavory, and they thrived well enough.

Gardis didn’t bother naming his horse; he figured he’d go through enough of them that a name was useless; no sense in getting attached to a beast that might die if it touched down after a jump the wrong way. It was an awful thought, really: grim, but entirely necessary. Gardis had always been a bit more utilitarian, even if the intentions were slightly purer of heart. The three of them working to get money was utilitarian; it’d be faster, if not a bit more dangerous. A pack was utilitarian; it meant Gardis and Gweld got some reward for their work but could also _help_.

Gardis had a plan to go through as many contracts as he good. No need to take the biggest and the most dangerous, just the ones he knew he could handle and knew he could handle quickly. Potentially, he could get more coin this way than just doing a few complicated contracts, but he didn’t risk his hide. All that mattered was being able to make it back.

Reven wasn’t that far behind Gardis. They left at nearly the same time, and Gardis didn’t even get much chance to make his traveling alone. They wouldn’t hunt together—weren’t _allowed_ to do that, but they could travel down the pass until they hit a good separation point.

“Care for a companion?” Reven quipped. The pass was wide enough for two horses to walk side by side, and they did. Gardis didn’t want to travel down any faster than he already was, so he couldn’t get away from Reven, as much as he loathed the company.

“Sure,” Gardis said. Easier not to burn bridges, too quickly. “You have a plan once we get down there?”

Reven shrugged. “Not much of one. Figure I’ll know it when I see it. Looking to do something dangerous.”

Gardis snorted. “Of course, you are. All you big alphas trying to be impressive.”

“Oh, you think Geralt’s got the balls to be impressive?”

“I think he’s got more balls than you,” Gardis replied, without missing a beat. He looked at Reven, who was frowning at the subtle jab, then shrugged. “You want me to lie to you? Got no fucking reason to.”

“Suppose so,” Reven agreed. “Cold up here. At least Geralt’s got that up on us. Someplace warm.”

Gardis chuckled. “Like you’ve ever been someplace warm. How do you know it’s not shit?”

Reven rolled his eyes. “Why aren’t we actually friends, again?”

“Because you rape my friend’s omega on the regular?” Gardis snapped back. “That’s a pretty good reason to not be friends with someone, I think.”

“What do you even care? You’re a beta.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have a functioning moral code, Reven. Just don’t have a knot.”

“Or a cunt,” Reven sneered. “Might be more tolerable if you had one.”

“And here I thought we were becoming friends. What a shame.”

It was, unfortunately, better to travel the mountainside with someone. It was dangerous; the close quarters made fighting difficult. It worked like a bottleneck for oncoming attacks, which made sense. Kaer Morhen was built as a defensible castle. It had the perfect location to be one. Being inside of the bottleneck, however, was dangerous no matter what side one was on. As much as Gardis would prefer to leave Reven in the dust and risk his horse’s legs on the way down the pass, it was a stupid idea.

Gardis didn’t follow it. They, rather, made nice conversation on the way down. Reven was intolerable at the best of times, but he was still just as much a man as the rest of them. He had thoughts, opinions, and a biting wit that almost made him funny. They might have been friends in a different world. Reven and Geralt’s rivalry was born out of being two young, stupid alphas in a tight space. Reven made it worse with the way he acted; made it real. Without that, though. It was rather tragic what Reven had become.

It took them two days to reach the end of the pass, the end of the mountainside on their right. It was there that Geralt, a month before, had found the omega girl about to be raped and sold into slavery. There was no remnant of it now; the girl had woken up some few hours later and taken the horse and wagon into town, back to her mother. The bald man’s dead body had been dragged off into the snowy woods where the creatures could feast and enjoy. All that remained was a strange stench of too many smells to really identify.

“Good place as any to part,” Reven said. “I see the path forks up there.”

“Heading west a bit more, I think,” Gardis said. “Suppose I’ll see you back at the keep, come winter.”

“Please,” Reven snorted. “It’s always fucking _winter_ up here.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong, either. The temperature fluctuated quite intensely, on some days; they were high up in the mountains and the hills with little cloud coverage to keep them away from harsher conditions, but for the most part, it was dreary. Dreary was a better explanation for winter than was cold, as many places didn’t see a lick of snow, in the winter. They did, however, see the dreariness that stayed in Kaedwen throughout the whole of year.

Maybe Geralt did get the best of it, going off as he did. He would get to experience something actually mild and temperate, for once. Everything up here was intense, hard. The coast might have some of that, it might also have something different. Gardis could already see Geralt coming back to Kaer Morhen with a tan. He’d have a subtle air of confidence about him, acting like being a Witcher was the easiest job in the world. He would never say that, though, because he knew the harsher reality.

One thing was for certain; it was going to be an incredibly long year. Long _years_ , even. This was their new life; a new life for all of them. They wouldn’t be considered Witchers to their own kind until they managed to return home the first year, but to the world, they already were Witchers. They killed monsters, were called monsters, and were paid for it all. Provided they could do it _well_ , this would be their life. A hundred years. The world would change around them, and they would just be slaying monsters.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mentions of abuse, sexual content

The road back to Kaer Morhen was somehow longer than Geralt remembered it being on the way to Redania, though the road was the same. He’d left enough coin stashed in a Redanian bank that what he brought back to the keep wouldn’t look suspicious. Anyone who knew him well would likely know it was less than he should have brought back, but it was within a range that no one would dare ask questions about it, not with how long Geralt had to travel to get where he was going.

He needed to make it back before the pass snowed over, and for what limited knowledge he had of exactly when that was, he might have left a little early. There were, however, plenty of stops along the way. He could stand to make a stop on a contract or two, if he needed. He may not; it would just be more coin to bring back for the keep and no coin to stash away for Eskel. He was exhausted, too. He’d been out here since March, hacking and slashing his way through monster and town problems. It was almost too much to bear, the thought that this ride home wouldn’t be easy.

It needed to be easy. For the entirety of the year, all that rang in Geralt’s head was Vesemir’s promise. If he made it home, he could see Eskel. But not only that, he would be able to see Emiel, too. Somehow. Emiel had been moved into the bastion or was about to be. Geralt couldn’t quite remember which, but it didn’t matter, because it meant Emiel would be _out_. He wouldn’t be locked away in the laboratory like before. Geralt still knew all the best places in the bastion to hide. No one would spot him if he dropped in for a quick peek.

Geralt, on principle, took a contract in each town he stopped in. Staying in towns cost money and often pride, so he had tried not to do it more than necessary. Every now and again, he wanted a bed. That was a need that was sure to disappear itself, eventually. It was easy enough to take contracts when he was just in the town, already, and often a free room was a part of the deal. It wasn’t anything difficult, and it was a few more coins in his pocket.

He knew he’d hit Kaedwen when he walked straight into a snowstorm, though it was one of the weaker ones. It didn’t make for good time, and Roach was none too appreciative of the struggle. Being back in Kaedwen, however, meant that Kaer Morhen wasn’t far. Geralt couldn’t stop now. It might take him a week to get back, but he wanted to make that time. He didn’t want to take two weeks to wade through the snow; there was no guarantee that it would let up, either; it just meant progress was slow and nights were cold.

Geralt used Igni to warm himself on Roach’s back, and she appreciated the burst of it, too. It probably wasn’t the best use of the sign, but as long as Geralt knew them all, he would use them in whatever way made his advantage. He could light an enemy on fire, or he could simply warm himself as they made their way through the storm. Slowly. Eskel was waiting on the other side of it, though Geralt didn’t know when he would get to see him. He had all winter to make good on Vesemir’s promise, though he hoped it would be soon.

It took Geralt nearly a week to make it to the pass, but once he was there, he knew he could make the trip through the most of a day. He stopped only once, and it wasn’t even for a full night’s rest. It was just enough to give Roach a moment, and then they were right back on the trail, up the pass. Geralt was anxious to be back. Anxious for the chance to see Eskel. He’d spent the whole year worrying about what he would find when he returned, and he was frankly terrified of it.

The gates opened for him, as he arrived. He was no longer barred from the keep, though he feared another bar upon his leaving in the spring. He would have to leave, again, but this time—he’d be able to just do it. He’d gotten a taste of the outside, and he wasn’t sure how readily he would want to leave it behind. He knew what he had to do, too, and he would do it gladly for the promise of a better future.

There was no fanfare for Geralt’s arrival, though he didn’t expect there to be one. There had never been any fanfare for a Witcher’s departure or return, and there wouldn’t be, now. That’s what the winter feast was for, a celebration for their return and a preparation for the fasting in January.

Geralt dismounted from Roach and led her straight to the stables. There was a young boy there by the name of Johnny who was more than happy to assist Geralt in unpacking his things; that was the first real time it had dawned on Geralt. He was a Witcher, now. His things had most likely already been removed from the barracks and placed in a general storage area for him to sort through later. His things and Eskel’s things, as they’d merged together into Geralt’s belongings after Eskel—well. Geralt didn’t think much about it.

Johnny helped Geralt unpack Roach. All of it would go to Geralt’s new room, which had been picked out for him in his absence.

“Master Vesemir picked it,” Johnny said. “You know him, right?”

Geralt nodded. “He is my mentor.”

“Wow,” Johnny marveled. “That’s amazing. A mentor?”

Geralt nearly laughed. “How old are you?” He asked.

“Me? Oh, sir, I’m only eleven,” he said. The bastion boys always helped out during winter; there were more Witchers in need of the assistance.

“Geralt.” A quick introduction, because Geralt didn’t think he could ever go with being called _sir_ again. It felt far too formal and strange for the situation. They were walking up some wobbly, stone stairs in need of a good, solid repair this winter. Upon hearing Geralt’s name, though, the boy suddenly stilled.

“Wait— _the_ Geralt?” Johnny asked.

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Everybody talks about you,” he said. “I didn’t know you had white hair—that’s pretty something, you know? Where’d you get it?”

“Trials,” Geralt grumbled, urging Johnny to keep walking. “What do you boys say when you talk about me?”

Johnny shook his head. “Don’t like to repeat it. Hope you understand. It’s all gross stuff not for me.” Geralt understood from that, alone. They were talking about Eskel, and Geralt was always spoken of in conjunction with Eskel. “They did say, though, uh—new kids! That’s good, right?” Johnny looked over his shoulder and grimaced. “I heard it was twins this time, sir.”

Geralt’s heart stilled in his chest. “Twins,” he repeated.

“Girl last time. Nobody was happy about that, I hear, but twin boys this time.” Johnny skipped up the last couple of steps and came to stand at the top. The door to Geralt’s room was right there. Johnny had the key, which meant it wasn’t by some surprise that he’d been in the stables to offer some assistance. This had been on purpose—Vesemir must have sent him to help.

Geralt sighed, but he walked into the new room right behind Johnny, then kicked his door shut. The room was fairly nice; it had a proper bed, a hearth, and a desk for work. There was even a place to fold and put his clothes away. At the end of the bed was a chest, and that, he learned, was where all of his things from the barracks had been stashed.

“Do you know where Vesemir is?” Geralt asked.

“No, sir. He said he’d come up to see you later, um—Geralt,” Johnny corrected himself, this time. “Said you should unpack first.”

Geralt took in a deep sigh. “Thanks, Johnny. I can unpack alone. Don’t need your help.”

Johnny nodded and passed the key to the room over to Geralt. Then, he ran back for the door. He stopped, touching the handle, then looked back over his shoulder to see Geralt just standing there, looking at the key in his hand.

“Can I come and talk to you while you’re here?” Johnny asked. “I—I don’t mean to bother, or anything, but—”

“Sure, kid,” Geralt responded. “I’ll be around all winter.”

Johnny grinned widely and left, right after. Geralt stared at the closed door before he finally got to work. The first thing he did was pull his hair back into a tight tail at the base of his neck. He stripped down, after that, all of his armor set atop the chest of drawers. He wanted to be in some fresh clothes; by spring, he’d be stopping in town to buy himself some more. His sack of coin went on the end of the bed; he would need to turn that in before he got too comfortable. His medallion stayed around his chest.

He was proud that he’d accomplished so much and come this far. His medallion meant he’d beaten the odds. It also was the only connection he had, because Emiel already had one. Wore it around his neck, as far as Geralt could remember. Hoped that he still did.

Geralt started to unpack, then, what little things he had. Most of it was a trip down memory lane, looking through the things that were still in his chest from the barracks. Most of the clothes wouldn’t fit him, anymore, but he stopped upon the sight of one particular shirt. A shirt that Eskel had worn near constantly—his favorite. It was a boy’s size and impossible to do anything with, now, but Geralt held it out in front of him. Emiel would be able to wear it, he thought, in a couple of years. Hand-me-downs from his mother.

That thought was going nowhere good, so Geralt folded the shirt and stashed it under his pillow. It would be his pillow until he died, the one in this room, or until he was old enough to pick a new one. Even so, he would probably send most of this down to storage when he left; if he and Eskel snuck a room outside of winter, then he was sure the other boys were doing it, too. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, stuck in a large keep with many, many other boys—sometimes the men. There was no shame in taking relief with each other.

Just, so long as they weren’t an omega.

Once Geralt’s unpacking was done, he picked up Eskel’s cloak again and draped it over his shoulders. It was still cold, and for lack of the energy to put on something warm, Geralt opted for the comfort of the cloak. It had protected him on his first year, out there. It was made of strong material, and Geralt didn’t know how he would get along without it. His plan was to head down to the mess hall and see if he could find himself something to eat, but he didn’t make it farther than the door.

Vesemir was on the other side, hand raised like he’d been about to knock as Geralt was leaving. That stilled Geralt, and the two stared at each other, for a moment. It only dawned on Geralt, then, that he hadn’t seen Vesemir in nearly a year, either. It dawned on Vesemir in the next second, and he wore the look plainly on his face. In the next moment, they embraced. It was a tight, firm embrace where Vesemir slapped his hand against Geralt’s back and nearly made him cough.

“Heard you were back, pup,” Vesemir said. “Didn’t think it was true, so I came to see.”

“Hope I’m not the first one back,” Geralt muttered, pulling away. Vesemir shook his head, so Geralt offered a weak smile. “When can I see Eskel?” He had to ask.

“That’s what I’m here about.” Vesemir let himself in, and Geralt closed the door behind them. “Best time’s going to be the feast. Still waiting on everyone to get back.”

Geralt breathed, deeply. The feast didn’t always happen on the same day; it could be at any time. It just depended on when the Witchers returned. “Have you seen Gweld or Gardis?”

Vesemir shook his head. “Reven’s back, though, as if we expected anything less.”

Then, Geralt’s breath jolted. “And _twins_?” He gawked.

“Twins,” Vesemir confirmed. “Do you care to know the names?” To that, of course, Geralt shook his head. He didn’t _care_ about the other kids; he cared about Emiel. “Should be back within the week, I expect,” Vesemir sealed up both topics quite nicely.

“If they’re back at all,” Geralt muttered.

“Won’t know that until the pass snows over, pup. Tell me about your first year.”

Vesemir took a seat at Geralt’s desk, and Geralt tossed him the bag of coin. He plopped down at the end of his bed and told Vesemir anything he could think to tell him, save the bit about accepting payment upfront. That had been a stupid thing for him to do, and nobody needed to know he’d done it. He told Vesemir about his contracts, about his time in Novigrad, and all about what he’d _learned_. The first couple of times, he’d thought the whole thing a tricky ordeal of a mess, but he was good at it. He was getting better at it, too.

As he talked, Vesemir poked through the coin pouch. Geralt watched him idly, more concerned with his talking than what Vesemir was doing. His story did eventually come to an end, though, after regaling the last contract he’d taken in Redania. He didn’t talk about doing the quick stops outside of Redania, for fear that would just get him into trouble.

“Doesn’t look like all the coin you should have, then,” Vesemir said, finally, leaning back into the chair. “Expensive eating?”

Geralt looked at him; he hadn’t come up with an excuse. He hadn’t imagined anyone would actually know well enough to ask, but Vesemir had counted each crown and decided he knew Geralt well enough to know something wasn’t right. In Geralt’s silence, Vesemir plucked a small handful of coins out of the pouch and tucked them into the top of Geralt’s drawer.

“You should stop sleeping in inns, boy,” he said. “You’ll never make coin like that.”

What did that mean? “I only slept in—”

“Best to save your coin,” Vesemir continued, and then plucked out another one just for good measure to tuck with the rest. “Nothing to be ashamed of. We coddle you all here, a bit, with the beds and the fires. Hard to get used to the reality out there. Lots of Witchers make this mistake their first time around. You might take a bit to learn.”

Geralt’s eyes were wide. Did Vesemir know?

“I— Thank you?” Geralt tried, but he didn’t understand.

Vesemir let out a bit of a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “Take all the time you need to learn how to figure out your finances. I’ll vouch for you. Never was very good at keeping you in line, was I?”

“That’s bullshit,” Geralt rumbled.

“Ah, yes, but it’s something they’ll believe.” Vesemir stood up and walked over to the edge of Geralt’s bed, where he patted a firm hand down on Geralt’s shoulder. “I want him out of here too, pup. If this is the best way I can help, then I’ll do it.”

Vesemir did know. Of course, he knew. He wasn’t stupid. But not only did he know, he was going to help cover for it. To really ensure nobody asked too many questions or took a second glance. Geralt couldn’t have been more thankful, but Vesemir didn’t want his thanks. He wanted Geralt’s action. He wanted this to be something _real_ , not a lofty child’s dream. Seeing the day Geralt’s plan came to fruition would mean more than any thanks he could give now.

Afterward, Vesemir left Geralt to his own devices. Geralt earned a long, peaceful rest after his journey. His obligations to train were much less intense, now that he’d proved himself. There would still be training, but he didn’t have to swing a sword from dawn until dusk. That gave him plenty of time to do other things, should he so desire, and Geralt desired a lot.

Gardis made it home next, a week later. Geralt met him outside of the stables with a solid, one-armed hug. Gardis stank of monster guts and his horse, but Geralt had too, when he got back; the baths always came later. When their hug parted, Geralt helped Gardis take his things to his own room. It was a quaint and peaceful little thing, and Geralt was almost glad for it. Knowing that a year on the Path wouldn’t change the friendships he’d made was reassuring.

“I managed to stash some coin,” Gardis said, once they’d arrived in his room and no one could hear them. “It’s not much, but it’ll be yours once we can all meet up a bit more fucking often. This whole first year crap—stay away from other Witchers! Stupid,” Gardis grumbled.

“A bit,” Geralt agreed. “Your journey went well?”

Gardis nodded. “Incredibly. I’ll tell you about it over drinks.”

“I had a plan for the evening, if you don’t mind. Better to share stories once Gweld gets back, anyway. Wouldn’t want to miss it; you know him.”

Gardis nodded. “True enough, that. What’s your plan?”

Geralt just smiled and patted Gardis on the shoulder. He didn’t have to share his plan with anyone, because the less people knew, the better. He simply left Gardis to deal with his own things, after that, and made his way back through the halls, until he was standing outside in the snow, again. The snowstorm hadn’t actually ever let up, though it was coming in waves. It wouldn’t be long before the pass was snowed over, and travel was near impossible. Then, the feast would come, and he’d get to see Eskel.

In the meantime, Geralt found a quiet corner of the keep where he could climb the side of the wall. He’d done this hundreds of times as a child and knew exactly where to kick in his boots to get good purchase. It was much easier to climb now that he was taller and stronger. On the other side of the wall was the perfect visage to see into the bastion yard. He tucked himself behind a bit of broken wall so no one would see him, from either side, and then he sat back on his haunches and just watched.

He’d spent a week arguing with himself on whether or not he was going to do this, because it felt a bit creepy. He was going to be watching the bastion boys train in hopes that Emiel might have been among them. Emiel would be four come January, but he was already in the bastion. He’d been getting big, quickly, and stronger than a normal child his age. They didn’t see the need to hold him back any longer than necessary. Geralt just wanted to see his son.

If they wouldn’t keep him from Emiel, he wouldn’t have to resort to things like this. That had been his excuse for creeping; if they only allowed him to see Emiel, to _know_ him, then it would be a different story. He wouldn’t have to sneak around and spy from old collapsed towers in a keep. He could just be over there watching, encouraging. He didn’t _not_ want Emiel to become a Witcher. He just wanted to be there.

Geralt didn’t remember much training as a boy, but he remembered a bit of it. It was on stupid levels of easy, but they were _children_. They barely knew how to walk, let alone swing swords and cast signs in the air. The training had to be stupid; it was to give them a head start with important, more subconscious things. It was harder to teach a young man to hold his stance than it was to beat a stance into a boy until he simply stood like that on principle.

The snow and the cold had never stopped training, and now, Geralt had a first-row seat to it. The train of young boys that came out—all of them were roughly the same age; old enough to be in the same year, anyway, though Geralt couldn’t help but think he was looking at actual four or five-year olds. Emiel still stuck out a bit like a sore thumb, mostly because he trailed behind in the line. He was about the same size, maybe even a bit taller—wider. It was hard to see from the angle.

Emiel didn’t know what to do with himself, and he made that clear by the way he still sucked on his thumb and waddled back and forth on his toes. He was _nervous,_ almost, to be around so many other boys. He didn’t know what to do with them or what to say. He just looked awkward. A boy his age shouldn’t be sucking his thumb, anymore, but his medallion was hidden beneath his shirt. He’d learned very quickly that he needed to hide it, because the other boys thought it was cool and wouldn’t leave him alone until he showed them.

This first part was just a social bit. Knowing how to engage with others and _talk_ was an important part of simply growing up; even more so important when being a Witcher. If they really cared about it, though, they wouldn’t have locked Emiel up for the first years of his life. They wouldn’t urge and encourage him to join in the fun either. Geralt watched as Varin _yelled_ at Emiel. It made his blood boil, to watch, but he couldn’t do anything.

Emiel did eventually scoot himself closer, but he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to interact. He eventually just found a place to stand where his back was to Varin, so Varin couldn’t yell at him again. It was a smart move, if still not the one he should have made. Geralt didn’t blame him—felt bad for him, in fact. Emiel had no reason to know what to do with other children. They’d pretty much taken that from him. He would learn, perhaps, if he felt better in his own skin, but Geralt was sure his son was anything but stupid.

It was like Emiel _knew_ he was different. Geralt could see it in how he acted, when they were finally moving into the training bit. It would make sense for Emiel to have these innate instincts he didn’t understand. If he’d truly been born with Grasses toxin already in his bloodstream, then why wouldn’t he just _know_ some of this? He was looking at the other boys for indicators on how to not be good, because, at the core of it, he was just trying to be like everyone else.

“You can do it,” Geralt found himself muttering, gripping now onto his own medallion.

They were just practicing standing—stances, the ability to move. It was mostly disguised as a game, to get the boys to actually do what they were told. Geralt had gotten good at _stealth_ , because the better he could hide, the less work he had to do. But for the moment, they were just working on the proper ways to stand.

Geralt remembered watching Emiel take his first wobbly steps. They hadn’t been his first steps, at all; it was only by virtue of hearing that Emiel had taken his first steps that Geralt even knew to try and get him to walk. They’d been the first steps that Geralt had _seen_ , and so they were Emiel’s first steps. His knees had been so shaky, and his feet unsure of where to go. He’d been top-heavy and ready to tumble at any moment—and Geralt remembered grabbing him, hugging him.

He _wished_ he could be down there with Emiel, helping him learn. This was too far away. He couldn’t see when Emiel formed his little hand into fists, nor when he grinned as he understood the lesson. He couldn’t see, either, when they moved to practicing signs. At this age, they weren’t learning to cast the signs. They were learning the shapes of the signs. Understanding the shape to cast, as well as which shape went with which sign, was of paramount importance. A wrong casting could spell death.

The goal was to have the signs memorized in muscle by the time they were old enough to begin casting. They’d never done a bad job of that, as far as Geralt could see. He hadn’t gotten his signs mixed up since he was just a boy. These boys wouldn’t begin proper training until the spring, but this was just as much playing as it was starting to learn. Little games devised to make things seem easy. It was actually strange, seeing Varin in charge of this bit.

The instructors did what they were told as well as anyone in the keep, but Geralt didn’t think of Varin for his particular patience of kindness. He did, of course, scream at some of the boys, but it wasn’t quite the same as forcing one of them to unwrap their wound and let it bleed until the training was done. There weren’t exactly many wounds in sign practice, though, not without the actual cast.

Geralt found quickly that he was enjoying himself. Emiel would do well in his training; Geralt never had a reason to doubt that—he and Eskel had both excelled at most of it, though Geralt had done better with the sword and Eskel better at signs. Emiel would just be good at all of it. Geralt’s pride might have been a bit biased, as Emiel was his son, but still. He had no reason to doubt himself, and he had no reason to doubt Emiel. He was already doing well. As well as a near four-year-old could.

Hours had passed without Geralt realizing. He hadn’t a single clue how long he’d sat there, only that it was suddenly getting dark and his ass was beginning to hurt from the stone and the stiff position. He couldn’t stay here forever, and there would be no point as it looked their daytime play-training was beginning to come to an end. Geralt had no reason to sit in his hideout, so he stood up and stretched out his limbs long enough that he could use them, but not quite so that they cracked. They needed a good crack.

When he hit the ground, he stretched better. It felt nice to be back on his feet, and he was ready to head out for some real food, some drink. He’d been up there for far longer than he intended.

At some point, while he was up there, Gweld had returned back to the keep. Geralt met him and Gardis in the mess hall, where they both had enough food and white gull to share between the three of them. They had stories, too, so many stories to share. Gweld had mentioned the money, quick and under his breath, then spilled right into the loveliest woman he’d met on his travels. Verena, her name must have been, though he didn’t seem to quite remember it.

They took turns sharing stories about contracts and conquests alike. Geralt had no conquests and admitted that once he was half a cup down of white gull. He’d been expecting mockery, but instead just got a firm pat on the back.

“So noble.” Gweld was nearly weeping. “This man right here—we should look up to him.” Gweld’s arm went from an idle, friendly pat to just entirely wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders. Gweld rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder, too, with his fake weeping.

Gardis snickered. “A truly celibate man,” he said, raising his glass in cheers.

Geralt chuckled and took another deep drink of his gull. He may very well be celibate the rest of his life, but it’d be worth it. Just for one night, he might dream about being able to hold Eskel again. He laughed to himself, thinking of the nights they’d fallen asleep together in the same bed, squished so close together that everything was touched and tangled together. He missed that. Longed for it. Geralt had grown too used to sleeping alone.

The winter feast came near the end of December. Geralt could hear the excitement from within, but he hadn’t yet gone. He wouldn’t go. He was waiting outside, leaning against the stone of the building, waiting for Vesemir to meet him. The festivities weren’t quite fully underway, but they would be, nearly. In a moment afterward, everyone would be too far drunk for anyone to notice that Geralt hadn’t shown up or had rather shown up and left. Even Rennes was in there, already half-drunk off his ass and boasting away with his other nasty alpha friends.

Geralt waited there for what seemed like ages, in the cold weather, but Vesemir eventually came. He wasn’t entirely steady on his feet, but he had come from the mess hall. Geralt had been in there for just a moment, enough to make himself known, then leave. It was the best cover to have. Nothing wrong with slipping away early. They were just sneaking away for an entirely different reason. They didn’t even speak, as Vesemir approached.

They walked off together towards Eskel’s chamber, though they took the long way around to deter any followers. They hadn’t any, but it was best to be sure with this sort of thing. Most every Witcher and boy would be in the mess hall enjoying a night of frivolity, and those who weren’t were either asleep or sneaking off to do their own thing.

Again, there was no words. Vesemir just approached the door and shoved the key in the lock. He hesitated for only a moment, and Geralt understood why as he approached the door. The smell of a heat. It gave Vesemir enough pause to question if this was a good idea, but he looked at Geralt and knew the answer. He unlocked the door and pushed inside, dragging Geralt after him quickly. They could not be seen.

The room smelled sickly, and Geralt nearly choked on it. It was thick and fake and pained. Eskel was all but writhing on the bed, though he hadn’t any strength to move. His arms were pulled taught, and he tugged on the bond. The whole scene was awful, but Geralt could look past it. He pushed past Vesemir and ran to Eskel’s side.

“Can we—fuck, let him out!” Geralt snapped, looking back to Vesemir. “ _Please_.”

“Listen to me, pup,” Vesemir said. “I’m going to let him out, and I’m going to lock the two of you in here.”

Geralt looked at him, almost in disbelief. He was torn between Eskel’s pained cries to the side of him and Vesemir’s strange comment before him. “What if someone finds us?”

Vesemir shook his head. “I’ll worry about that, pup. Just—gods.” Vesemir hurried with his key, unlocking Eskel’s cuffs as quickly as he could. Eskel’s arms dropped down hard, and he groaned. Vesemir could barely look at him; new bite marks were blooming over his skin alongside handprints and finger shaped bruises. More than that, he smelled of pure, disgusted want, and Vesemir was an alpha. He could not look at Eskel all he wanted, but his instincts didn’t care that it was Eskel. All they knew was _omega_.

They had derived a rather crude method of marking when someone was inside, and that would be enough to protect them for the night. Vesemir left the room, and Geralt heard the lock behind. He’d be stuck in here until Vesemir returned but had the assurance that no one else would bother them. Geralt didn’t have time to worry about how true that assurance was; he trusted Vesemir with his back, with his life. He could trust him with this. For the moment, his concern was Eskel and only Eskel.

“Eskel,” Geralt looked down at him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Eskel looked at him. Really _looked_ at him, with eyes open. There was no fear, there. Just an immediate recognition, an immediate _relief_.

“Geralt—” Eskel choked on his own voice, but he used whatever strength he had to throw his arms around Geralt’s neck and pull him down. He held onto Geralt tightly—tight enough that Geralt early choked, but he didn’t dare complain. “Oh, Geralt—” Eskel _sobbed_ into his neck. “You came _back_ —”

Geralt held Eskel back, just as impossibly tight, feeling the way his body trembled, how it shook with his sobs. Geralt’s heart shattered—he wished the Dreams had taken more from him, because this, this was pure agony. Instantly, he stroked the back of Eskel’s neck. His hair was so long, down past his shoulders, but Geralt just pushed it aside to reach their bond mark. Eskel shivered, instantly, almost moaning. He choked on it, knees pressing together weakly. Geralt could smell the slick on him, and it was _real_ , even if this heat were fake.

“I’m here, Eskel,” Geralt soothed. “I would never leave you.”

“They told me—they said you hated me—”

“Never. Fuck,” Geralt rumbled, closing his eyes. “Wanted to be back with you for so fucking _long_ , Eskel.” Geralt thought he might cry, right there. The sudden rush of feeling was so overwhelming; he hadn’t _felt_ anything in such a long time, but Eskel brought it all tumbling right back into him. He had to swallow it all down.

“Geralt—Geralt, I _need_ you, please.” Eskel fell back down into the pillows, gasping and straining. He tried to pull Geralt down after him, but he didn’t have the strength to fight against Geralt’s hesitation.

“What?” He was trying hard, already, not to react to this.

“ _Please_ , Geralt.” Eskel was practically begging, straining for Geralt’s touch on him. “No one—please. _Please_. You won’t hurt me. Can’t hurt me.” He hadn’t talked this much. Not since Rennes had visited him last, and it was straining on his throat. He didn’t want to think about Rennes. He wanted to think about Geralt. “It hurts so much, Geralt. You don’t _understand_.”

Geralt shushed him, moving in closer. He hesitated, but it was hard to resist. Eskel was begging for him, looking so fucking _perfect_ with his tits still there, a bit of baby fat left around his stomach. The smell of him, too. The whole room had changed scents from pained and distressed to suddenly wanton and perfect. It was Eskel, under there, under all the crap that they’d done to him. Orange blossom, leather, and _pine_. Geralt pressed his nose down into Eskel’s neck and smelled him.

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned. He berated himself for this, losing control so quickly. But he smelled Eskel and knew, instantly, that he wanted this. Craved it. Eskel hadn’t had a kind hand on him in years. With Geralt right there, he had to ask. He couldn’t _not_ ask. But nothing happened, not instantly. He took Eskel’s face, instead, holding him steady.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, and he said it in such a deep, grumbling voice that Eskel would be helpless but to obey it. That tugged at Geralt, made him feel like this was _wrong_ , but he couldn’t hurt Eskel. Not after everything he’d been through.

Eskel just nodded, slower this time. “Knew you still loved me,” he muttered, and that ruined Geralt more than any monster ever could.

He leaned down, kissing Eskel _hard_ , desperately. He hadn’t tasted Eskel in years, and it felt just as good as it ever had. His soft, full lips—even the marring of the scars didn’t change a thing. Geralt almost didn’t even notice them, too enraptured by the feeling of Eskel’s lips on his, Eskel’s tongue dancing with his. Eskel could barely grab onto him, but he tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair as best he could and tried to kiss back. When they parted, Geralt was panting, and Eskel looked like he barely remembered how to breathe.

“Geralt— _hurts_ ,” he muttered, and his voice sounded wrecked.

Geralt didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to make it hurt worse; one touch might be all it took—Geralt didn’t know what he’d been through, what was okay and what wasn’t. He just knew that Eskel was begging for him, hips weakly bucking into the air. Geralt hadn’t noticed until then, but Eskel was painfully weak. He was flat against the mattress, and his legs only ever shifted when he strained. Geralt gulped, tried to ignore it. He looked back at Eskel’s face and kissed him, gently. Tenderly.

“I love you, so much,” Geralt muttered into his lips. “Tell me what you need, Eskel.”

“Anything,” Eskel gasped, voice hoarse. His breaths were near wheezes. “Just touch me—”

Geralt did, and it felt like _fire_ just to have his hand on Eskel’s chest. Eskel shivered underneath his touch, his eyes never once leaving Geralt’s face. Geralt’s hand moved, slowly, over his sternum, down his stomach, his hip. Eskel’s breath hitched; it was the kindest touch he’d felt in _years_ , and that alone was nearly enough to take him apart. But then, Geralt wrapped his hand around the base of Eskel’s cocklet and stroked him. Eskel’s jaw fell right open, a silent groan of pleasure, but his thighs began to shake.

“That feel good?” Geralt asked.

Eskel nodded, unable to speak more. He lost himself in the feeling—so new and _sensitive_. Nobody ever touched his cocklet; it was left ignored and was nearly never hard. Geralt went right for it, squeezing lightly around the base. He wrapped his whole hand around it and nearly enveloped Eskel’s entire length. Geralt kissed Eskel once more, hard and fast, before he slid down the side of the bed. In the next instant, he had his lips around the very tip of Eskel’s cocklet, what he didn’t cover with his hand, and Eskel’s hips bucked up.

Geralt sucked right around the tip, laving his tongue over the slit, pressing into it. Eskel shook as the pleasure overwhelmed him. The light squeeze of Geralt’s hand, the different pressures he made along the length of him, had Eskel panting out, bated breath. Geralt’s mouth was so hot, so _wet;_ there was saliva dripping down over his hand, between his fingers, and that eased the stroke of Geralt’s hand when he started to move again. It was intense. Eskel had never felt anything like it. Another rush of slick dripped out of him, but Geralt ignored his cunt entirely.

Eskel shivered, gripping weakly into the pillows at his head. He wanted so much more than this, but at the same time, this was throwing him right over the edge in ways he’d never imagined. The pleasure was constant, burning—just from Geralt’s touch alone. His alpha. He was overjoyed, really. Eskel couldn’t stop the first prickle of tears; it all just felt so _good._ Geralt was making it up as he went along. He’d never done this before, only ever imagined it by himself at night.

Geralt pulled off at the first sound of Eskel’s cries, but Eskel shook his head, hurriedly. _More_. He wanted more, and he couldn’t find the strength in his throat to say it. He could barely spread his thighs out, but it got the point across. Geralt moved, not once touching his own clothes or the clear, straining erection in his breeches. He just shifted up and between Eskel’s thighs where it would be easier. His mouth returned in an instant, lips over the smooth skin of Eskel’s mound.

He lapped right at the base of Eskel’s prick, right where it met flat skin and split apart into his dripping, swollen cunt. The smell here was nearly too intense. Geralt felt the fog in his head growing thicker, but he wouldn’t give into it. He wouldn’t let this start a rut—this was for Eskel. Geralt gripped his cocklet again, stroking him faster, this time. Saliva eased each pass of his hand. Eskel was trembling through each touch, spreading his legs out farther as Geralt moved down between them.

The first kiss against his tender skin had Eskel gasping. Geralt kissed over his labia, every touch almost too gentle to feel, but the pleasure jolted up through Eskel’s spine all the same. He squirmed in the bed, panting hard as Geralt took his first real _taste_ , lapping through Eskel’s slit. Geralt moaned against him, and that was all it took. The heat of his hand, his mouth, his _tongue_ , and Eskel was falling apart. He cried out as his orgasm racked through him, totally and _completely_.

He was panting, hard, by the time Geralt finally pulled away. Geralt moved from the bed only to find something clean enough he felt comfortable wiping Eskel down with it, and even that touch was gentle. Eskel was still trembling through the aftershocks when Geralt slipped into the bed beside him, still entirely clothed and _hard_. Eskel wanted to care, but he couldn’t. He was even glad that Geralt hadn’t done anything more. In the aftermath of his orgasm, Eskel had enough clarity through the fake heat that he _knew_ he wouldn’t have wanted Geralt to fuck him.

They were past that, now. Geralt made absolutely no indication that he even cared about his own cock, just opened up his arms to give Eskel a warm place to move. Then, Geralt was holding him. Eskel pressed his face into Geralt’s chest, and if Geralt cared about the tear spots, he didn’t say anything. He just threaded his fingers through Eskel’s hair, held him, and rubbed little triangle shapes on his back.

“I—” Eskel swallowed around that. It didn’t sound right. “You left the keep,” he muttered, instead, hoping Geralt understood.

Geralt nodded, leaning down to rest his cheek on Eskel’s head. “I did. Went all the way down to Redania. Might even go back in the spring; I haven’t decided yet. Temeria might be a nice change of pace.”

“Tell me.”

Geralt shifted closer, Eskel pressed up against his chest, and told him anything he could think to tell. He left out the bit about stashing coin; he trusted Eskel with the information, just didn’t want to give him undue hope if this didn’t work out the way he wanted. He told Eskel about the monsters, about the people and their problems, about the inn rooms, and about the long, long road he faced. But he enjoyed it. Enjoy was a strong word, but Geralt hadn’t really hated a moment of his journey.

“Wish I could have come,” Eskel muttered. Geralt held him tighter.

“Wish you could have been there. You’d like it where it’s warm.”

Eskel hummed in response. No smile, just the thought that he might, indeed, like someplace warm.

They rested against each other for what must have been hours. Eskel fell asleep, at some point, lulled there by the rhythmic beating of Geralt’s heart in his ear. But he woke up. Fake heats were much more erratic than real ones, and in that night together, another wave of it didn’t hit. Geralt even thought he might just be able to _sleep_ here, with Eskel in his arms. He’d been waiting for this moment for years, but the sound of a key in the door roused them both.

Geralt moved off the bed as Vesemir let himself in, then made sure the door was locked again behind him. He took just a moment to look at the scene, happy to see it calm, again. Eskel was even covered with the blanket, curled up on his side with his face in the pillows where Geralt had left him.

“It’s time to go,” Vesemir said. “Wish I could let you stay the night, but that’s dangerous.”

Geralt nodded, then went still as Vesemir approached the side of the bed. “What are you doing?”

“The chains, pup. Have to go back on.”

Eskel reacted immediately, pushing himself up on weak and wobbly elbows. “N- _no_ ,” he gasped. When Vesemir took his hand, he struggled with every ounce of strength he still had in his body. “No!” He shouted.

“Vesemir, there has to be a way—”

Vesemir shook his head. “Not without causing problems. I hate to do it, but it has to be done.”

“Please, don’t—” Eskel gasped. He struggled against Vesemir’s hold, and he had enough strength to even make it a real fight. Vesemir had the upper hand; Geralt watched with _horror_ as Vesemir signed in the air in front of him. Axii.

“Be still,” Vesemir commanded, and Eskel went lax against the pillows.

“How—how could you?” Geralt gawked. “What are you doing to him—?”

“I don’t take joy in it, boy!” Vesemir snapped. He looked it, too—pained, as he snapped the shackles back on. “If anyone knows you were here—” Vesemir stopped short, just shaking his head. It was a threat. Geralt knew it, too. This was the only way to ensure nobody knew he was here; Eskel’s scent would mask his own through the night. No one would be able to smell him, but if they found Eskel without shackles, they would know something happened.

Vesemir broke the sign, then stepped away to the door. Geralt, instantly, turned back to Eskel. He took Eskel’s face in his hands, stroking along the crests of his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“I love you,” Geralt whispered, and Eskel nodded. He still had not smiled. Not even once.

“Let’s go, pup,” Vesemir said.

It was agony to pull away from Eskel, worse to know where Geralt was leaving him, what he was leaving him to. But Geralt left. He left with one last glance over his shoulder, then left. The door was locked, again, and Eskel was left to silent darkness, nothing but the lingering sent of Geralt in his pillows to keep him company.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none
> 
> i hope everyone is having a good december so far! don't forget to check me out on tumblr or twitter if you're interested in seeing more of my work :) links in the notes down below

Geralt traveled to Temeria in the spring, and he dared to say he actually enjoyed his time there. The weather was more temperate, and he couldn’t help but think that it would be precisely the place that Eskel would like to spend his time. It was another place to stash coin, as well, as much as Geralt could willingly put away. He kept a running tally alongside his potion inventory, scribbled on parchment that was mostly crumbled for how poorly he stored it. He had his money as well as the coin Gweld and Gardis had stashed away.

If they kept up the current pace, Geralt thought he might be able to afford a small piece of land by the next year or two. He’d turned twenty-one not long after he’d made his way to Temeria; years were passing quickly, and as much as the travel and the downtime were quite boring, time still ticked on at some acceptable rate. Geralt had always tried not to think about time. Time was one of those things that didn’t matter so much when one was a Witcher, because it was irrelevant.

In Geralt’s particular case, time wasn’t just irrelevant—a long lifespan, indeed—but it was painful to think about. Geralt had turned twenty-one, which meant Eskel had, too. Eskel, who had been locked away in the Fall of his fifteenth year. Emiel born right before the dawn of his sixteenth. Six years. Seven children. A world of hurt. The lifetime they had ahead of them may have seemed endless, but it still didn’t seem enough to make up for all that Eskel had suffered.

Geralt had decided on Temeria. It was far enough away from Kaedwen that they could stay hidden, but not so far from civilization that Geralt wouldn’t be able to continue his Path. This was the only way they’d earn coin and be able to live. They wouldn’t be able to farm their own food, though Geralt might be able to spare the time to hunt. Purchasing meant coin, and this was the only thing Geralt knew how to do. They had to be close enough that he would be able to justify leaving for a day or two at a time to ensure coin could flow.

The logistics were impossible to figure out this early, but Geralt was already looking for places that he could purchase. He wasn’t looking for a great deal of land or a great manner of ostentatious aptitude. Just a place to set down roots, somewhere with a large enough space that Emiel could have a room to himself and grass to play in. Something small enough that Eskel wouldn’t have too much trouble getting around until he was properly recovered—though, Geralt hadn’t a clue what time that might require.

If he could find the right place, he would barter and haggle until it belonged to him, no matter what he could pay up front. He was a Witcher—as much as people didn’t like him, they could trust him. They knew they could trust a Witcher to keep his worse; it was how they were able to feel so comfortable in their mocking and their jeering while still begging for their assistances.

In the meantime, he faced any monster he could from Kaedwen to the southern reaches of Temeria, and he did so gladly.

In the winter, he returned to Kaer Morhen, and life was the same as it’d always been. He spent his days training. In the private moments to himself, he sneaked off to the broken battlements to hide and watch the bastion boys train. On the night of the winter feast, Geralt stole enough food away in his satchel that he could bring Eskel something to eat, and then sat at Eskel’s bedside to help him eat. In Geralt’s absence, another child had been born. Eskel knew neither the sex of the child, nor its name, and he did not care.

“Emiel,” he croaked. “Emiel’s all that matters. He’s all that _can_ matter.” And Geralt understood, perfectly. He would never know the deep, spreading nature of a mother’s bond with their child, but it wasn’t a bond that Eskel could afford to keep, not with how many times it’d been broken. He wouldn’t have been able to keep up with that.

“He’s doing so well,” Geralt told him. “Watch him, sometimes. Remember the training we did as kids?”

Eskel’s laugh was sputtered and choked, but it was there. Strained. Without a smile. Just a laugh for the sake at laughing at things that had been funny in the past. Geralt’s own smile was weak, and he curled Eskel’s hair behind his ear. He needed a haircut, new clothes, and a nice, long soak in a bath of hot water. Geralt kept the fantasies and the dreams to himself and opted for just holding Eskel. Eskel was rested in the crook of his shoulder, content for the moment. He never smelled _happy_.

“Do you think he’ll be good with signs?” Eskel asked.

“Yeah. Think he’ll be good with a sword, too.”

Eskel snorted. “Best Witcher they’ve ever seen.”

Eskel was exhausted. He was pregnant, again, and visibly so. Geralt didn’t ask, and Eskel didn’t mention it. They didn’t ever talk about the things that Eskel went through; one day, they might, but it would be on Eskel’s terms, alone. Geralt was never going to ask; he frankly wasn’t going to listen, either, unless Eskel needed him to.

It ended the same as it had, before. When Vesemir came back, Geralt had to go. It didn’t matter that Eskel was asleep in his arms. When Geralt moved, Eskel woke, and he fought _again_ to not be put back in chains. Another dose of Axii, and Geralt couldn’t watch it. He left the room. He didn’t get very far before Vesemir caught up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder, whirling him around that Geralt might face him.

“How close are you?” Vesemir asked.

“Another _year_ , maybe? Unless I can start borrowing funds from the school—”

“They’d catch you too quickly, and you know it.”

Geralt frowned. It wasn’t a serious suggestion. “How do I even get him out of here? Once I have the place, then what?”

“We find a way to get him out of here in the spring, and you don’t come back.” Vesemir patted Geralt’s chest, hard, like that was the end of it. And it was. The end of it. Geralt didn’t see Eskel again before he left in the spring, though he did get to see Emiel hold a training sword for the first time. It was almost worth it. Might have been more worth it if Geralt had been the one to show him how.

Word had returned that the pass was nearly melted down, ready to travel on, so Geralt packed. He packed the way he had for the first two journeys—everything he needed fit into his satchel and his saddlebags, he had the bedroll, and he had Eskel’s cloak. It may as well have been his cloak, at this point, but he refused to think of it like that. It was Eskel’s, and the only reason he wasn’t wearing it was because he didn’t have a chance to. Geralt even thought that maybe seeing the cloak again, one day, would make Eskel smile.

He was ready to go within the day; by this point, he had a better idea of what he was doing and what it was going to take. There was no more leaving Kaer Morhen unprepared, hoping to get prepared on the road. Most everything else he needed he could get on the way. Things were pleasant, now that he had a routine going, and these were just the early years. Vesemir had been so taken with some of the stories that Geralt brought back that he was even considering taking a year, or so, to revisit the Path.

There was something kind and fulfilling about staying at Kaer Morhen year-round to train the boys, but even Vesemir had that thirst for travel that Witchers just had to develop. It sounded like a perfectly good excuse to help, too, if Vesemir were able to steal away for a year. Easier to get Eskel out of the keep if there were several of them working to do, instead of just Geralt. So far, the plan seemed to be ride out of Kaer Morhen quickly and just hope for the best.

That would be too much luck for Geralt’s liking. Someone would notice everything that needed to be in preparation before that could happen. Even now, as Geralt strapped Roach down with his gear, people were _noticing_. Geralt had turned into one of the Witchers who left the moment it was clear. The less time he spent in Kaer Morhen, the better; his reasons were clear, though no one would have questioned him regardless. There was nothing wrong with leaving early.

He intended to leave before the sun was even up, once word had come back that the pass was fully cleared. Roach was prepared, and so was he—Eskel’s cloak around his shoulders. He had been meaning to stop by someplace and get it repaired as best were possible; might he even learn himself, one day. He didn’t want to return the cloak in bad repair. Geralt was ready to set off, but he did not even make it to the gate. The moment he pulled Roach from the stables, Gweld and Gardis were waiting for him.

“Assumed you’d be sleeping,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, did some digging around and whatever,” Gweld said as he stepped up. He threw an arm around Geralt’s shoulder, then slapped something into his chest. When his hand disappeared, Geralt caught what fell, wide-eyed. “Picked it up from my stash afore I came home,” Gweld explained. “Didn’t want to send you off without it.”

Geralt looked from Gweld to Gardis, then, and Gardis stepped up to him. He held out a similar sized bag of coin, and Geralt took it. Gardis had high expectations attached to his name; he’d never been perfect at anything and did certainly have a reputation for being just as much a troublemaker as the rest of them, but he got down to business when the time game. He was expected to bring home more coin than Gweld might have, and his lighter bag of stash reflected it.

Anyone in the keep wouldn’t have been shocked to hear Gweld spend his coin on whores and drinks at the taverns and brothels. He had a high appetite for the finer things in life, and certainly paid for them, well. He had been able to stash more coin than Gardis without raising suspicion, and Geralt was _still_ certain that he’d saved enough for whoring and drinking. Gweld was better than they gave him credit for, though he had been the one to ensure they gave him very little.

“Do you think it’ll be enough?” Gardis asked.

Geralt shook his head. “Don’t know. Have to count it first stop I get to. Need to get my own, too; I’ve got two of them.”

“Going far?” Gweld had moved to lean against the stables, foot kicked him behind him for leverage on the wall.

“Redania,” Geralt said. “Not a problem, though. Was looking at some places in Temeria that I think Eskel would like.”

Both Gardis and Gweld smiled. They would each turn twenty-two in just a few weeks, but this was an even more important milestone than age. Geralt would finally be able to buy land, he hoped. Maybe even land that had a cottage on it. He wouldn’t know what he could afford until he sat down to count through it all. But it would be one of the first things that he did. He’d work his way down through contracts as was proper, but he would hurry. Take the simple ones, if he could. Coin was always an object, but it was less of an object than _this_.

“Get going, then,” Gardis piqued up. “Eskel needs a home.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said so quickly his voice nearly cracked. He stashed the coins in his satchel, then leaned forward to pull them both into a hug, his arms around their necks. They shared a quiet laugh in the darkness of the morning, then pulled apart.

“Never thought we’d get this far,” Geralt muttered. “Still don’t know if it’s possible.”

“It is,” Gweld assured, slapping Geralt in the shoulder. “Now _go_. Redania’s a long way. You’ll be fucking old by the time you get there—not like you don’t look it.” Gweld smiled a toothy grin, crooked teeth and all.

Geralt pulled himself up onto Roach’s back. Gweld patted her side, then Geralt was off on his way. Beyond the gate was the pass, and Geralt took it as slowly as he ever did. He was ready to find an end to this long, arduous journey. He could work easier knowing Eskel was safe.

He traveled slowly. Each time he stopped was a test to not count his coin too early, but he only got _more_ coin as he traveled. He stopped along the road and was paid to rid a small town of a pack of wild wargs in the area. More coin for his stash. He had to use a bit of coin here or there for food and repairs on his gear, but as long as his stash didn’t dwindle, he could make what he needed along the road. A contract here, a contract there, notices pulled down from boards and grunted at before he found the strength to do them.

Some people needed help that was practically inane, but it was better they pay for the professional help than attempt to do it themselves. They often just made things worse, than that, and Geralt could use the coin. A couple here and a couple there worked well. He could spend what he made, and still have a bit extra by the time he got into town.

By the time Geralt made it to Novigrad, he was several weeks twenty-two. He wasn’t going to count his coin until he made it to Temeria, next, but he stopped in Novigrad for some actual work. He planned to stay in the Novigrad region for a couple of months before he headed down to Temeria. He had the whole year to get where he was going. As much as he wanted to rush down there, count all of his coin, and make an impulse purchase, he needed to keep himself controlled. If he did that, he wouldn’t be able to _wait_ until winter came.

As it were, he just had to live each day as it came and do what he could for coin, for a living. It landed him in enough taverns to at least keep his sanity intact.

As the heat of the summer truly began to set in, Geralt turned Roach on the main road towards Temeria. The last time he’d been in Temeria, it had mostly been for taking contracts and slaying monsters. There had been some sightseeing, because couldn’t help himself. He was sure that, given enough time, he would have seen it all so many times that he was bored of it, but the first time was something he couldn’t help but savor. The world was a vast, wide place. It would be a many long years before he’d seen it.

He remembered the roads, well enough, and stopped for his map when he didn’t. He was heading for Ellander, the city as much as he was the region. He’d found himself poised against a rather nasty wraith during his visitation the year prior. The weather was enough to make the area look inviting, but the number of things he he’d had to do was also something to keep in mind.

“Heard the bitch can’t walk,” a Witcher had said, once, in the mess hall over a mighty tall drink of white gull.

Geralt had never forgotten, that, because the idea terrified him. He hoped it wasn’t true. For as much strength as he had, he hadn’t enough to try and pull Eskel from that bed in the few moments he got to see him. Knowing the story was true might hurt worse than being unsure, and Geralt wasn’t ready for that. Besides, in those moments, it was far nicer to have Eskel resting against his chest, smelling of contentedness and calmness rather than fear and pain, than it was to do anything that might have landed with him breaking his kneecaps on the stone floor.

The rumor, though. Geralt had based his entire plan around that rumor. The house needed to be small enough so that Eskel would be able to do things on his own, his inability to walk presumed. If he wasn’t able to walk, then Geralt couldn’t go very far from their new home. He’d thought about it plenty of times over—his plan, based on a rumor. He could never be more than a day’s ride from the house. Even that was pushing it. Fuck the need for coin, really. Geralt didn’t want to be even a moment away from Eskel, but they would need _coin_.

For three days, Geralt did nothing but travel and sulk on the back of his horse. For a fourth day, he stopped off in some town on the side of the road without more than a piss bucket to share between them for how downtrodden it was, but they’d all pitched in to buy a Witcher, and there one was.

“Please, sir,” their herbalist had nearly begged. “Haven’t been able to get into the woods for weeks with the prowling.”

Geralt hated this part. He always had to ask. “What did you see? Details.”

“It’s like a dead deer come to life, sir. Please, you have to do something. It’s killed the young hunters, and I can’t get into the forest to pick my herbs!”

“Calm down, calm down,” he urged. He figured he knew what it was from that vague description alone. A leshen.

“Please, sir, we’ve got together all we can spare.” She moved over to a chest of drawers, then dug about her clothing until she could produce a small bag. Geralt thought it odd. They trusted her enough to keep all of the coin, but she didn’t trust them enough not to come and steal it once she had it. She held that small bag out for Geralt, and he took it. She offered him forty crowns, and nothing more. Geralt sighed.

The sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he could be in Ellander. It was within the next day’s ride, if he started early enough and took a break half-way for Roach to rest her legs. He was about to risk his own hide for forty crowns, but it was better than nothing.

“Hopefully, it’ll be gone by morning,” he said.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” She clasped her hands together around the meager coinage and bowed deeply.

Geralt promised the leshen’s head, so he went to retrieve it. Someone could surely use the bones for something useful. These were the type of people who got crafty, quickly. Before he left, he ensured that his swords were sharpened. He’d fought leshen’s before, and he knew how to prepare.

The herbalist was kind enough to tell Geralt where he could find the sight at which the hunter boys had been murdered. That would be as good a place as any to start. Geralt was hoping for a quick and masterful attempt, here, but drank down a quick potion to be safe. It tasted like an ass that had never been washed before, and Geralt nearly gagged as he swallowed it. But it would keep him awake the whole night with stamina to last. If this wasn’t quick, he would make it quick. He couldn’t slow down.

If he were to go straight from Temeria to Kaer Morhen, then he needed to ensure he was on the road by November. He could take as slow a time as he liked getting back up there, but he needed to be headed in that direction.

Geralt didn’t meet the leshen in the woods; it found him. It found him rather quickly, all shrieks and angered growls. Geralt drew forth his silver sword in hopes to strike it down quickly. His first attack thrown was a sign of Igni right in the air in front of him, and fire flew out of the space a moment later. Sparks ignited quickly, burning the leshen right out of its ability to defend itself. Geralt struck next in a sideways glance of his sword. Again, and again, twisting at the middle and striking hard each time.

It fought back, massive enough as it was to cause a threat. Geralt wasn’t worried. He couldn’t afford to _be_ worried. This was an easy fight, and Geralt reminded himself of that as he was thrown to the ground in a sudden attack. This was an _easy_ fight—he could do it. He pulled himself up, back on his feet, and struck again. There was fire out of his fingertips, the strike of his blade, and the leshen didn’t stand much of a chance. It was standing between Geralt and his final destination: Ellander, to buy a _home_.

He made quick work back to the village and intended to take his meager forty crowns before leaving, immediately. However, he wasn’t just offered the coin. The herbalist looked at him with those big eyes, apologizing for the lack of coin they were able to spare, for him. They were so grateful for what he’d done that he could, so they were offering him a room for the night. They didn’t have any fancy inn, but they had a tavern—all towns needed a place to wash their sorrows down. There was one room available, there, and it was Geralt’s for the night. Free of charge.

“Thanks,” he muttered rather begrudgingly. It was the last thing he wanted, but he took it. They could use a real proper night’s rest, Geralt in a bed and Roach in a stable. They could be off at first light, and no one would notice.

Geralt stabled Roach just outside the tavern, then headed inside where, at the first slap in the face of a familiar piss-ale scent, Geralt fancied himself a drink. It’d been awhile, and ale wasn’t strong enough to get him drunk anymore, anyhow. It wouldn’t hurt a soul for him to have a drink. These people appreciated his work, his kind, and didn’t jeer at him as he sat down at a table. He ordered the ale, and it was brought straight to him—free of charge.

The woman who’d brought it just looked at him, for a moment, and Geralt looked back. She smelled like nothing in the way that _nothing_ smelt like nothing: purposeful and pointedly. Betas smelled like nothing in the way that there was nothing there to smell. From the look of her, Geralt figured her for an omega, immediately. Hiding out in plain sight, likely with the help of her parents. She might have just as well been an alpha, but Geralt had met a few alpha women—they didn’t tend to be so plump, not in the hips and tits as this lady was. They also didn’t care for other alphas.

“Need something?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. He took a sip of his ale and leaned forward onto the table.

She took that as an invitation to sit down across from him. She leaned into her own hand, smiling at him a bit wistfully. “My name is Lillica,” she said. “You’re Geralt, aren’t you? I’ve heard the people talking. Whispering, as they do, you must know.”

Geralt grunted in response. He was indeed Geralt. Geralt of Rivia, to be precise, with an adopted Rivian accent. His first name hadn’t gone over quite so well with Vesemir; it’d been long and pretentious, too much of a mouthful for any Witcher. Geralt had been a lofty child, and he carried some of that with him.

“Forgive me for asking, Geralt, but—” Lillica sighed, “you’ve got this look in your eye. This—” she looked around, then leaned in deeply, “— _smell_ about you.” So, she was an omega. That was a dangerous thing to let out with a man she didn’t know, but Geralt wouldn’t dare touch her. Wouldn’t dare share her secret, either.

“How did you two meet?” She asked. That had been the last thing Geralt expected to hear. “You must be in love. You wear it right on your sleeves, Geralt. It might stink if you didn’t smell of horse and forest odor.” She laughed at her own amusements. Geralt even cracked a smile.

“Long time ago,” he said, not entirely a lie. “I don’t remember how.” A lie. They’d grown up together, making mischief and learning swordplay side by side.

“What is she like?” Lillica assumed, but Geralt didn’t bother to correct her. Lillica didn’t need to know anything about Eskel.

“Long, brown hair,” he said. “Been meaning to get it cut, actually. Strong-willed, but I’d almost say shy, too.”

“Oh,” Lillica sighed, resting her hand against her chest. “What a lucky girl she must be.”

“Why are you asking?” Geralt inquired, then, taking another sip of his ale.

“You can tell what I am, can’t you?” Geralt nodded and said as such, and his guess was correct. “Mother’s been helping me hide. She’s friends with the herb lady, you know. She fears that if someone knew, something _bad_ would happen—” she stopped short as Geralt slammed his tankard of ale into the table.

“She’s right,” he said. “Bad things happen out there to un-bonded omegas. Sometimes, to bonded ones, too.”

Lillica’s heart fell, right there. “You can’t be the only decent alpha around.”

“Clearly not, but that doesn’t mean they’re easy to find. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Geralt finished his drink in one gulp, then stood up. “I have to leave early in the morning and would like a rest.”

Lillica didn’t say anything as Geralt left. He’d been truly afraid that she had an eye for _him_ , but from the look on her face, she had an eye for someone else. Someone who probably wasn’t appropriate for her, by standards, but Geralt didn’t make judgments. By standard, Eskel wasn’t appropriate for him, either. He’d seen too many people talk too poorly of omegas to think any different, especially male omegas. Some people were base enough to believe male omegas were abominations, a misshapen _thing_.

Geralt found sleep less than easy, that night. He tossed and turned; his dreams filled rather with horrific memories than anything so pleasant. He remembered the day Eskel had been taken from him like it’d only been yesterday, and he remembered better all that had happened after. Emiel, taken from him too, and then Eskel’s marring. It was awful, and it replayed in his head, stuck on repeat. By the time morning came, Geralt felt no better rested than he had the night before.

It was time to travel. Geralt readied Roach for the road and was sent off with a bite to eat from Lillica’s mother. Geralt didn’t see Lillica, though, and he was near glad for it.

It took him a whole day’s ride to get to Ellander, and once he did, the first thing he did was set up camp and go to sleep outside of town. In the morning, he would face the arduous task of getting the rest of his coin, counting it, and then figuring out how he was to come into ownership of some land. If he had to fight a few monsters to get there, then he would. He would do just about anything to ensure these people didn’t mind a Witcher living within a day’s ride of their homes.

Geralt paid the stables a bit of coin to keep Roach while he was int own; he wasn’t exactly here to do any work. If he needed her, he could come back and get her. He’d handed over enough coin to have a place in the stables for Roach for a month. Without knowing what it would take to get him a piece of land, he planned to stay here until it was time to return to Kaer Morhen. At least, he knew enough about the process to know where he was going. To buy land in a duchy, he had to buy it from the Duke.

Or, at least, those who were in close enough trust of the Duke to be handed control over certain aspects, such as land selling. That was how Geralt met Willem. After an entire day of flitting about the city like a pompous idiot, he was finally right where he needed to be. Only, it wasn’t exactly what he’d expected to be there for. He’d heard from guards, from noble people—he’d even stopped by the temple of Melitele on his goose chase to hear that they had a job for a Witcher.

Geralt was welcomed into the large building like one might have only welcomed a close friend or family member, and it was strange. Willem was a fat old man with a black beard and graying hair, dulled over eyes. He had wrinkles that extended back into his receding hairline, but he matched well enough with the decor of the place. Geralt would have called it dustily ornate, where everything might have been true finery years ago, but there were more important things to work towards than replacing the velvet banners that hung in the windows.

Something or other followed the name of Willem; Geralt wasn’t listening to all of the extraordinary titles and distinctions. He heard _purveyor of land_ and that was all he needed to hear. Willem, of course, knew Geralt was a Witcher by the medallion on his chest, but did not know Geralt. So, he introduced himself.

“I’m looking to buy land,” Geralt grumbled, and Willem shook his head.

“No, no! We have a job, first. It might even be up your alley if you’re looking for land.” Willem sorted through a few papers first before he brought forth something. “It’s about a day’s ride out of town,” he said, which sounded too good to be tree. “Problem is, that’s not too far off from the road, you understand. There’s this old abandoned place up there that _seems_ to have become home to some sort of awful smelling monster. Some witnesses say there’s multiples of them!” Willem looked like he might faint.

“Can I talk to these witnesses?” Geralt wondered.

“Yes, yes, we’ll sort that out. Not a clue what these things are, only that they’re killing _travelers_. If you can clear them out, though, we can certainly discuss the land. Nobody wants that old place up there, anyway.”

“You said it was abandoned.”

Willem hummed. “Some time ago, in fact. It’s up by the river.” A river too small to show up on any map. “Needs some work to even be livable, at this point. Not even sure how the whole cottage hasn’t rotted down. But it’s there.”

“Sounds perfect,” Geralt rumbled, and it did. It sounded like just the thing he needed. “Give me the names of the witnesses. I’ll track them down.”

Willem listed off three witnesses, and Geralt went to find them. If this was what it took to get himself a place to live, then fine. He’d kill whatever monster problems Ellander had—the whole duchy—for as long as he would live.

The first witness was a beta merchant out in the square who had only barely managed to avoid his own death, rather sacrificing his caravan members to run from the attack. His name was Bryn, and Geralt thought him more a weasel than a man with his crooked mustache and long face. Bryn described the attack as three horrific looking witches come straight out of the shadows of the woods. All he could remember were the screams they caused, and his story devolved quickly into hysteria. He’d nearly lost his merchandise, after all.

The second witness was a young beta woman with a soft face and mean eyes. She described in much the same, three ugly and fat witches bursting through the shadow. She had stayed longer, though, and the haunting of it rested in the cruelty of her eyes. The only reason she survived was because she’d known a path quickly from the road to the town; it was a road she used often to escape from guards when she was caught stealing. She had seen one of the witches take a bite out of one of her companions, at the time—another thief boy who she’d been arguing with.

Might she even have taken the path up by the woods to be rid of him, she didn’t say, and Geralt didn’t ask.

The third witness, he found in the temple, wounded beyond repair. He would die, there, but there was a priestess taking care of him that he might at least die in peace. His name was Simon, though he did not introduce himself. He hardly talked as Geralt looked over his wounds. There were claw marks, but more important, teeth marks. Ulma, the thief woman, had not been lying when she said these monsters took a bite out of people. This was the proof, and Geralt knew exactly what he would be facing.

Geralt readied himself by ensuring his blades were sharpened and he had a potion of blizzard brewed. Devourers stayed in groups, and they often attracted rotfiends with their dealings in live flesh. Geralt was in for a fight, and he would need the potion’s help. It would enhance his reflexes, his reaction time, and hopefully make this battle more easily won than it might have otherwise been. This was the sort of job that might require assistance, but he had no time to call on it.

Besides, this was for Eskel more than it was for Willem and his coin. Geralt had a feeling he would be able to fight with the strength of two Witchers, with that on his mind. If he failed here, Eskel would be condemned to spend the rest of his life in that prison of his; that wasn’t an option.

Geralt took Roach only as far as the road, and then left her safely out of sight. It was nightfall, by then. Geralt sucked down his potions. He always had cat handy, as it allowed him to see in the dark. Blizzard would hopefully help keep him alive. Then, he headed into the forest. It was dark, and the thick coverage meant for little light down at the bottom, but the cat potion helped. Geralt had no trouble walking through, though he went slowly. He was hoping to catch them by surprise as they made their way to the road for a midnight snack.

He heard them before he saw them. There were three, and if he wasn’t quick, there might be more. He could hear noises in the far-off distance—might have been wolves, might have been wild dogs, might have been rotfiends. He really didn’t want to find out, so he had to be quick. He drew his sword and made his way forward on quiet feet, listening closely. He could _smell_ them, next. Then, he could see them. They saw him, too, and the battle began.

Quickly, Geralt moved from his position to strike at the head of the first one. It would be the only attack he had the advantage on for the length of this fight, and he made quick use of it. His sword lodged itself in the fiend’s neck, and he was quick to pull away as the thing began to bloat and swell. He turned around quickly as it exploded—flesh and blood flying through the area. Then, Geralt was just as quick to turn back around. He casted Quen on himself as the second Devourer attacked.

They recoiled back, staggered, but the third one was right behind. Geralt kept the shield a moment longer before surging up on his right foot and striking. He tilted on his heel, turning round and back round again, another strike. He could hear more noises in the distance confirming his worst fear—that they’d attracted rotfiends. No doubt their cave off in the visage was filled to the brim with rotted human flesh they wouldn’t dare consume. It wasn’t _warm,_ anymore.

“Fucking bastards,” Geralt grumbled.

He just barely managed to dodge to the side, thanks to the potion coursing through his body, as one of the Devourers struck for him. Its partner caught him on the upswing, though, and Geralt’s breath left him as he was thrown to the ground. He was quick to stand back up, drawing his second blade as the first had been knocked from his hand. The moment he was close enough to get it, he would get it, but he didn’t have the luxury to run for it.

They were coming closer, the rotfiends in the distance. He would be overrun if he didn’t fight swiftly. His next sign was Igni with the hope to just burn the creatures alive. It only worked so well, but in their moment of pained screeches, agony through their limbs as the fire took hold, Geralt struck another down. He could smell the rotfiends now. He wouldn’t be able to kill the third Devourer before they arrived, but he fought harder, regardless.

The second one exploded near in his face, but he walked it right off like it was nothing more than a flesh wound. Geralt was bleeding, but he didn’t care. He just pushed forward, striking the Devourer and turning quickly on his heel to attack the first rotfiend that found them. Geralt was breathing hard, but he just reminded himself again and again. This was for _Eskel_. To make sure he had the home he deserved, a save place to just _live_.

Geralt felt his strength renewed, all at once. He cut down rotfiend after rotfiend, backing away in the wake of their deathly explosions. It was like setting off a chain reaction. Three of them died, all at once, and that was powerful enough to still the Devourer in its approach. Geralt struck for it, quickly, grabbing his lost sword once more and using them both, stabbing right through the Devourer’s gut and pulling back, out the left, slicing the thing open. He backed away, quickly, and the creature exploded before it ever hit the ground.

Geralt was left in silence, then, panting. Long times had since passed between this and the last time he’d felt so exhausted. It ran right through his bones, and he rubbed his face for a moment. He smelled of blood and guts, but he didn’t care. The blood smeared on his face was as much his as it was the Devourers’; they would bother the travelers no more.

He took his time, gathering what he could from their remains—things that were helpful in potion brewing or that might be sold. Then, he called for Roach. He wasn’t so far into the forest that she wouldn’t hear his whistle. She came running a moment later for the unfortunate task of being a pack mule for proof that the Devourers were killed. She would hold onto them until morning, and thankfully, hadn’t a mouth with which to complain.

In the meantime, he led Roach down to the stream nearby. She had a nice drink, and Geralt washed the blood from his face. It was as good a place as any to rest for the night. He could head back to town in the morning for his prize; maybe his _deed_ , here, would get him a discount on his land. If it didn’t, maybe he could haggle in some workers to help him get the place set up. There was so much to do, and there was so little time, it felt like. He didn’t even bother to set up camp; his intention was to just meditate against a tree for the evening.

Eskel would need clothes. They couldn’t share, forever, and none of what Geralt kept would fit him anymore. It would fit Emiel as he grew, but Eskel essentially had nothing. Geralt would need to ensure there were beds, too. He was planning on three beds, really, unsure of how willing Eskel would be to share one after what he’d been through. They would need cooking equipment, food, some sort of stove or fire with which to cook. Storage space. Geralt sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He wanted it to be perfect. He could even get toys, for Emiel. Emiel had turned five in January, so maybe he wouldn’t need a lot of toys, but as long as he still had a chance to play, then Geralt wanted him to have it. It would be a jarring change of lifestyle, going from training every day to be a Witcher to just being a boy, but Geralt would figure out the logistics of it later. Maybe Emiel would want to be a Witcher, still. Geralt almost wanted him to. He’d lost Emiel once; having to lose him again to a normal lifespan might be too much to bear.

Come morning, Geralt mounted Roach and led her back through the forest, back into town. It was a cool morning, thankfully, even if just a prelude to the afternoon’s heat. The ride back was peaceful, relaxing even. Geralt skipped the stable and went straight to the large building near the center of town. He stopped Roach there, dismounted, and headed inside. He’d taken a slow ride back to town, so it was late enough in the morning that everyone would be to work. He could just waltz right in.

Willem was off in a side room, fretting over some paperwork. Geralt walked right up to him, arms crossed and head waned to the side as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Your problem’s gone,” Geralt said, shocking Willem out of his stress-stupor. “Might be best to clear out the caves to the north. Could be dead bodies in there to attract more problems.”

“Ah, yes. That’s—” Willem breathed deeply. “Disgusting. I will endeavor to get a group of men on that. You say the danger is gone?”

“Dead and gone.”

“I suppose that leaves discussion of your reward—”

“Land talk, first,” Geralt said, moving around the table to take a seat for himself. “You offered what was up there before, and I’ve had a chance to see it. I want it.”

“Pray tell, what’s a Witcher got need of land for, anyway?” Willem asked, sitting down.

Geralt swallowed, then rested his head in his hand so he could rub at his temples. So many questions he didn’t want to answer. “Got someone who needs a place to stay,” he said. “Aren’t exactly the type to be owning property.”

Willem hummed, rather intrigued. “An omega friend, then. Quite the story, Master Witcher. Certainly willing to sell you the property; it’s just a matter of coin, you understand. It may be abandoned, but it’s a good piece of land. Enough there to do some more building, too. Have to take someone out there with you to show you the confines of the property.”

“Sure. How much is it?”

“You want it without even knowing?”

Geralt nodded. It was the perfect place.

“Suppose we can talk coin before you’re shown around. Can always mark out the property later, even. I’m assuming you don’t intend to move in, now; it’s in such disrepair.” Geralt shook his head. “Well, then.” Willem shuffled through more papers, more work, then did a bit of mathematics in his head to come down with everything they needed. It was an ordeal that took him twenty minutes, and Geralt was beginning to wonder where he was known for _patience_.

“Your reward for the contract would come to five-hundred crowns. I assume that’s reasonable?’

“Sure,” Geralt muttered. He didn’t care. He wanted the house.

“Total cost for the house in current state, as well as the sizable bit of land it comes with—ten thousand crowns, Master Witcher.”

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered. Willem tilted his head to the side in silent curiosity. Geralt, in response, dropped his bag of coin on the table, because he’d been carrying it. After nearly three years of work between the three of them, and they’d only been able to stash away nine-thousand, six-hundred crowns.

“Well, I don’t see an issue,” Willem said. “You do have a reward waiting for you, after all. Your help was much appreciated, so here’s a deal for you. You can buy the property for nine thousand, then the five-hundred reward will go towards ensuring the house has a usable structure. We’ll work on that when you’re away, of course. You keep the six-hundred.”

Geralt blinked. “That’s—are you sure?”

“Positive, Master Witcher. I can’t see a reason why it wouldn’t be valuable to have you so close. I dare say Ellander should never have another monster problem again, hm? You would travel, I imagine—” not as much as Willem thought, but Geralt agreed, “—but the point remains the same. Can’t really see why this wouldn’t work. The house will take a lot of work, I assure you. Call this an investment on the city of Ellander’s part. We do intend to see you around.”

Geralt agreed. He agreed near instantly. They counted out the coin, an arduously long task, but it was done. Geralt left with six-thousand, and the city got nine-thousand, five hundred. It worked. Geralt had a house. He had land. He’d finally found a way to get rid of the pesky problem of _where would Eskel go_.

He was taken back out to the property after the deed was in his name and handed over. Willem would set to work on the initial repair work, simply because all they were promising to do was fix out the outside. That included the foundation, the roof, and the woodwork in the walls. Geralt would have to take care of everything else with his own coin in his own time, but that was fine. He had no idea how he was going to get Eskel down here; time was paramount.

The cottage had no door; Geralt walked right through the opening where they would be one. He could hear talking outside, as they discussed the particulars of the first repair. Geralt stopped listening to it as the space before him just became over whelming. There was already a stove set up—it was wood burning and had enough space to be able to cook with. Beside it was a stone countertop and cabinets built into the wall. There was no furniture in the whole place. It was mostly rubble and rubbish, but Geralt could see the potential.

It had a loft storage area to the left of what Geralt was picturing as a living quarters. It was close enough to the stove that it would be warm in the winter, but far enough away that the stove wouldn’t be overwhelming. Other than that, there were two rooms. One was larger and had a second wood burning hearth inside, which looked to still be in grand condition. This would be Eskel’s room, as Geralt was still planning for Eskel to prefer sleeping on his own. The second room was smaller and full of rotten wood, but it wouldn’t be, forever. Emiel would stay there.

Geralt even found himself smiling. He’d put this place back together with his own hands, if he had to. Things were finally falling into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of a new era here with this chapter. congrats on making it this far!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: violence, blood/gore, injury, childbirth, abuse
> 
> stay tuned tomorrow for a special holiday present :)c

Geralt took on any and every contract he could find in Ellander. Once the cottage’s bones were repaired, he had two jobs. He was a Witcher by profession, but a sudden handyman by hobby. By this point, his focus was so solely on Eskel’s arrival at the cottage that he hardly cared for bringing back an acceptable amount of coin to Kaer Morhen. He’d brought back a hefty amount each year; he could be excused for one bad year. He spent his extra time working.

Geralt fit custom doors to make the rooms inside private. He purchased wood with which he put together beds. Being a part of the repairs at Kaer Morhen gave him enough experience to do the little things, but he had to buy storage chests and pay for someone else’s handiwork when it came to hinges and nails. He couldn’t quite make those from hand. He built his own storage units with the hinges, right into the wall. If he could get his hand on some nice crafted cushions, he’d make a sitting area out of it, too.

His time was limited, however, and when he left in November to make headway towards Kear Morhen, most of the house was left unfinished. Geralt was one man with a pressing job, so he tried not to beat himself up over it. Kaer Morhen wasn’t a bad thing, either. The house didn’t matter without Eskel, and Eskel was at Kaer Morhen. He hoped things were the same as they’d always been, that Geralt would get to see Eskel on the night of the winter feast.

There was also some pride in returning. He got to see Emiel’s improvements over the year. He still talked with Johnny when he had the chance. Johnny was an inquisitive lad, and he wanted to know what he could do better, always. Always better. Always training. Reminded Geralt of himself, he did, though Geralt didn’t know how well that would mean he would survive the Grasses. That was the best reason to not get attached to the boys, but Geralt had a hard time with that.

He stopped several times along the road, contracts here or there. If he worked hard enough, he may not even have to use his excuse of a hard year to get by. He could just make it all up on the road back—which, was a lofty and fruitless goal, but Geralt tried. It kept him busy, too, kept him from thinking too hard. Contracts weren’t exactly the easiest thing in the world, but if he could think about preparing to fight a kikimore instead of what he would do back in Kaer Morhen, then it was a good day.

Eventually, he made it to Kaer Morhen. He made it in one piece with enough coin he hoped no one would ask _too_ many questions. Vesemir definitely would. It didn’t matter. Geralt stepped through the gate and fell right back into routine. Roach was stabled, unpacked, and Geralt took his stuff up to his room without any assistance. He only had to wait until the winter feast to see Eskel, and he was more than excited for that prospect. It would take all of his strength to keep their new house a secret—he couldn’t risk getting Eskel’s hopes up for nothing.

Eskel’s situation was never different, because no one wanted it to be any different. When Vesemir let Geralt inside, the night of the winter feast, he was chained, wounded, and stark with the scent of a lingering heat. He wasn’t _in_ heat, though, because he was pregnant. Very clearly pregnant. Geralt was always around to see the pregnancy, but never the child. After the twins Eskel had, he had another boy. Then, a girl, always when Geralt wasn’t around. He was beginning to lose track of it all.

Vesemir unchained Eskel, who whimpered as his arms flopped down. Then, just as always, they were locked into the room until Vesemir returned. Geralt sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke his fingers along Eskel’s cheek. Eskel had a new habit where always tilted his head to the right, trying to hide the scars on his face. Geralt didn’t touch them often, because Eskel flinched away. As much as Geralt wanted to tell Eskel the scars made him no less, he knew Eskel wouldn’t believe him. He settled for the warmth of Eskel’s face against his palm.

“I’m home,” Geralt whispered softly. Eskel flinched but calmed a moment later as Geralt kissed the side of his face. He mumbled something that sounded too much like an apology for Geralt to feel comfortable responding, so he just kissed Eskel again.

After his most recent girl, whom Vesemir had said they’d named Astrid, Eskel had been whipped. As if that really meant he would be able to decide what sex the child he birthed was, they’d done it anyway. Most of the welts had healed, but Geralt could still see the red marks over Eskel’s chest, his stomach—even his thighs. Geralt hesitated to think of where that whip had landed.

“You smell like soap,” Eskel whispered. “Smelled like horse, last time.”

Geralt gave a weak chuckle. “Thought I’d clean up for you.”

“I’m cold,” Eskel muttered. Geralt had already dragged up the blanket, but it seemed to be doing little. Instead, he shifted so he could sit in the bed beside Eskel; they resumed their usual position, where Eskel huddled close to him for whatever warmth he could sleep.

“I spent most of the year in Ellander,” Geralt started. “I think you’d like it there.”

Eskel hummed. “Tell me,” he said, a soft demand that required nothing in return. Geralt told him, anyway.

He didn’t tell Eskel about the house, but he talked about the Devourers, about Willem, and the thief girl. He told Eskel about his traveling, about the food he was forced to suffer through. He told Eskel anything he could think to tell, and then some, as his memory was jogged. Through it all, he held Eskel closer.

“Wish I was out there,” Eskel muttered, as the story finished. Geralt wanted to tell him that he would be, soon. He’d be out there in the sun, _with_ his son. It would be everything he’d ever dreamed of, but if that dream couldn’t come true, Geralt wouldn’t dare plant it.

“Too many brushes with death,” Geralt finally decided to say. Eskel’s grip on his shirt suddenly tightened, and Geralt regretted his comment, immediately.

“You can’t die. Need you.”

Geralt threaded his fingers back through Eskel’s hair. “I’ll come back every winter for you. Promise.” One he could keep, too. He had no intentions of stopping until he was so ripe with age he could hardly stand, anymore.

Eskel didn’t smile, but he shifted to press his nose into Geralt’s sternum. “Lay down,” he muttered. He couldn’t pull Geralt, but he could ask. Geralt had yet to refuse a single request; this one wouldn’t be the first. Geralt slid down the bed until he was lying in it, and Eskel’s head was right up beside his instead of resting on his chest.

“Arm,” Eskel muttered.

Geralt hesitated, but he rested his arm around the dip in Eskel’s waist. Eskel flinched, as if forcing himself back down to contentedness. The one thing he couldn’t hide was how much he didn’t want an alpha to be touching him, even if that alpha was Geralt— _his_ alpha. Still, he’d asked, so Geralt didn’t refuse. He just rested there, propped up on his own elbow and tracing shapes into the small of Eskel’s back.

“You can sleep, you know,” Geralt said.

Eskel shook his head, but he did close his eyes. “Have you seen Emmie?”

Geralt smiled. “Emmie?” Eskel didn’t respond, and he didn’t need to. “He’s holding a training sword, now. Think he’s got the signs memorized, too. Fast at it. Not sure when they start teaching him to swing the sword but shouldn’t be long.”

“Miss him.”

“I know you do.”

“Miss you.” Eskel’s voice was getting weaker with each breath.

“I miss you, too,” Geralt replied. He moved his arm away from Eskel’s waist; the weight hadn’t bothered him, just the closeness, like it was crushing. Instead, Geralt brushed his fingers back through Eskel’s hair.

It terrified him, sometimes, to look too long at Eskel, but he couldn’t look away. This wasn’t the Eskel he knew, nor the one he fell in love with. This Eskel was broken, shattered, lying out in so many pieces that he might never be put properly back together. That idea was terrifying: that he would never see Eskel again. Not in the way he was supposed to be. Eskel was tall, but they didn’t feed him enough. What they did feed him mostly ended up on the floor when he wretched. Geralt might almost describe him as scrawny, and Eskel had never _been_ scrawny.

“Tired,” Eskel whispered.

“Then sleep. You can sleep. Being with you is enough.”

Eskel was gone before Geralt even finished speaking. His breathing evened out as he slept, and there was always a healthy amount of space between them, though the bed hardly allowed for it. They didn’t touch, save for where Geralt’s fingers ghosted along his cheek, his scalp.

Eskel didn’t wake up until it was time for Geralt to go, and it was the same as it’d always been. He had to be put back in his cuffs—but this time, Eskel didn’t put up a fight. He couldn’t. He just let Vesemir chain him back to the wall, then found the most comfortable way possible to settle into the pillows. That sight alone made Geralt want to vomit, and he nearly did. Eskel was so _weak_.

Geralt waited for Vesemir just outside the door, and once the door was locked, they began to talk. At first, it was just idle things. Vesemir talked about how training was going, how the younger classes were. Geralt talked about how his year had been on the Path. That always led to comments here or there about how he could improve, and Geralt always took what Vesemir said to heart. Once they were far enough out of earshot, their conversation turned, immediately.

“I have a place,” Geralt said. “I bought land in Ellander.”

“That’s far,” Vesemir commented, his eyes a bit wide. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Far enough away from _here_ ,” Geralt nearly hissed. “How do we get him out?”

Vesemir shook his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t think we can figure that out before you leave, either.”

Geralt sighed. “Another _year_?”

“If it’s the best we can do, then it’s the best we can do. Rather get him out of here in one piece than risk the consequences. We need a solid plan.”

“Right.” Geralt knew that. He knew it, but he hated it. They would have exactly one shot at this, so it was better to know exactly what they were doing, right down to the smallest details. They would have to have a contingency plan for anything that could go wrong. One misstep, and the most likely consequence was death.

As it were, they had no solid plan. A month was not enough time to come up with one, though they had the barest beginnings. Geralt would need to come back earlier, in the winter, and leave later in the following spring. That way, there’d be less witnesses, less of a chance of things going wrong. It would be the best time to enact anything; Vesemir would have a plan by the time Geralt came back.

Geralt’s departure was miserable, and so was his trip down the pass. But afterward, he fell right back into a routine so easy it was either horrifying to think of or a blessing for what protection it offered him. If he spent the whole year thinking about Eskel, he’d be a mess. This way, he could think about what would happen _after_ they escaped. He could bring Eskel down this very same road, though faster than he currently traveled. They wouldn’t stop in every back-water town looking for work; they would just _go_.

The only time they’d stop would be to get a new horse. Geralt loved Roach, but he understood the impermanence of a horse. The fastest way to get to safety was to put as much distance between himself and Kaer Morhen as possible, and that would mean Roach wouldn’t be able to take them the whole way. He’d sooner find himself attached to the name than to the specific horse, too. This one was just about past her prime, and Geralt couldn’t see her lasting long, anyway.

He stopped along the road for contracts as he usually did, but his goal was Temeria, back to Ellander. He needed to work on the house, more, with what little time he could spare away from a Witcher’s task. He needed the coin, anyhow. Not just for himself, but to even make repairing the house properly possible. Though, his next goal might not be the interior, at all. He needed a place for Roach, which meant a stable.

Geralt traded off. Contracts. The house. Contracts. The house. It took nearly a month to gather enough coin to pay for a stable to be built—that was one thing he wouldn’t be able to do on his own. With that out of the way, he focused back on getting the beds built. When he was back on the road, it was to get coin for furnishings. He needed cushions, mattresses, and linens. Even without a proper place to store these things, for the moment, he needed them.

It wasn’t a bad thing, either, to leave the house unfinished. Eskel could make some decisions, too, once he arrived. It might be good for him. Geralt would leave the larger bedroom entirely untouched, save for the bed that he’d built—it was big enough for two, though he didn’t have much intention of sharing it. Not until Eskel wanted him to, anyway. The door was fitted with a lock, too, one that would lock people _out_ , not lock people in. Geralt spent more time on Emiel’s room. After the bed was finished, his first job was creating shelves.

Then, it was back on the road. He didn’t get much farther until it was back on the road for good. Geralt started heading back for Kaer Morhen in November, as he usually did. His plan was always to stop for work on the way back, but he didn’t stop for as many as he would have, otherwise. He had to get home, listen to Vesemir’s plan, and then help sort through the problems. There would be problems. They would likely need help with the plan, too. Gardis and Gweld wouldn’t refuse.

Geralt arrived at Kaer Morhen on a bright and cold day, where the sun was nothing more than a reminder of what it _would_ be like if it were warm, but it wasn’t. There was no fanfare when he arrived, as usual, but there was a commotion. Geralt paid no mind to it and went straight for the stables, which were about as vacant as they could be given how early Geralt had returned back. It was within a week of what time he would normally return, but in that week, many of the Witchers returned before he had.

He stabled Roach, and before he could even think of beginning to unpack, he was turning around and coming face to face with Johnny. Johnny was red faced and panting, doubled over on his knees like he’d run to the stables. Geralt stared at him for a long minute before Johnny piqued back up.

“I’ll unpack for you!” He said, a bit too excited. “He’s—your omega. He’s having a baby.”

Geralt’s eyes went a little wide. A baby? That would explain the commotion he’d run into upon arrival, especially given that he was one of the first Witchers to arrive back for the winter.

“I can’t go and see him,” Geralt said, after that long bout of silence. “Never been able to. You can help, though.”

Johnny’s face fell a bit. “They don’t let you see him? One of the older boys said you, um, bonded with him, though?”

As far as Geralt could tell, Johnny was still just Johnny. He didn’t smell like he’d presented, though that rarely meant anything. Eskel had hidden for a long time before anyone found him. Johnny seemed to find the whole thing distasteful, too, so Geralt didn’t mind talking about it with him. He started to unstrap his bags from Roach, handing down the first one to Johnny.

“We bonded young,” Geralt said. “It—was a mistake, but it happened.”

“Don’t you love him, though?” Johnny asked, taking another bag in hand. “That’s what a bond is for, right?”

Geralt nearly felt bad for the kid. He’d been listening to too many stories. Maybe that’s what the bond was supposed to be for, but out there, Geralt had seen it used too much as just a mark of ownership. Omegas, bitten as a means of control. They were bitten by their rapists so they couldn’t go very far, forced to live out their lives with someone who attacked them on the streets because they had no choice. Breaking bonds was painful. Overriding them was even worse.

“I do love him,” Geralt said, ignoring the second question. “They don’t think I do, though, because we were so young.” That was a lie, too, but it was easier than the truth.

Rennes wasn’t entirely an evil man. Many of the younger boys looked up to him, because he _was_ a great Witcher. He was a skilled fighter, a skilled alchemist, and a skilled survivalist. The lessons he taught were paramount, and even Geralt could find himself going back to a few things he’d learned from Rennes. If Johnny were one of the boys who saw a hero in Rennes, a mentor, Geralt wouldn’t be the one to ruin that. Neither would he condone what Rennes had done, but he could vague his way through the answers.

Johnny helped Geralt carry his things to his room. Geralt spared himself one glance towards Eskel’s chamber as they walked near it but didn’t try for much. He could hear weak shouts and figured that meant that Eskel was _actively_ giving birth. Geralt didn’t know anything about the process, only that it’d nearly killed Eskel once. He couldn’t imagine that meant it was a good thing, entirely. Sure, a new life was born, but how many times did it simply replace the one it took? Geralt didn’t know.

“Put those on the desk,” Geralt ordered as they arrived in his room. His room was cold, empty, and alone. He needed to light the fire, but he couldn’t get the scene out of his head. He stared at Johnny for a moment, as Johnny stacked things neatly on the desktop, then cleared his throat.

“Is it always like that?” Geralt asked.

Johnny looked at him. “You mean the screaming?” He nodded. “I don’t think they give him anything to help the pain. They can’t, right? He screams forever.”

Geralt swallowed. “Thank you. For the help. Run along, now.”

Johnny winked and waved himself off. Geralt sat there in his room for long enough that he could safely assume Johnny was actually gone, and only then did he get up. He lit the fire quickly before he left the room and went back down the stairs. He hadn’t been around for the last countless births, so he hadn’t tried to see Eskel during that time. He scarcely thought that he could do it, now, but he might get away with standing close by. There wasn’t anyone who could stop him, anyhow.

He’d forgotten how _empty_ the keep felt in the spring, summer, and fall. So many Witchers left in the winter, and as long as they all returned, each year only added _more_ Witchers. It was strange to be back at Kaer Morhen and find it this empty; he hadn’t seen it like this for years. It didn’t make a difference, though, as by the time he arrived back at Eskel’s chambers, the screaming was done, and the doors were closed. Inside, they were finishing the job in private.

Mariette was the last one in the door, and she locked it behind her as she began to walk. She had a large bundle in her arms, and Geralt recognized it, instantly. It was the same bundle he’d seen that night Emiel was born, so Geralt hurried down to Mariette’s side. Oh, she smelled him before he approached, and the look on her face when he did was enough to send even a man his size straight to his knees. It chilled him to the bone, the disgust on her face.

“What do you want?” She barked.

“Is—is Eskel alive? Is he okay?”

Mariette sighed. “He’s _fine_. Birth is not over when the baby is born, unfortunately.”

Geralt grimaced but didn’t ask. “Is that,” Geralt gulped, “his baby?”

Mariette nodded. “He’s had a son, this time, though I wish he hadn’t. Might teach those bastards that whipping him for the birth of a girl _is_ the right thing to do.” She snorted. “He had a boy after you left in the spring, though, too. So, it remains to be seen what they’ll think.”

Geralt hesitated, but his height was his advantage. He peered over Mariette’s shoulder and into the bundle in her arms. A beautiful baby boy with auburn hair and green eyes stared back at him, cooing into the open air.

“His name is Aubrey,” she said, quietly, and that caught Geralt’s attention.

“Aubrey,” he repeated. “Eskel’s friend.”

Mariette nodded. “I knew Aubrey, as well. He was a good man, and this child deserves something good to come out of his life. Now please,” Mariette stopped and looked at him, “run about and go bother someone else.”

Geralt nodded. He didn’t know how to feel about this new baby, anyway. He wasn’t about to ask to hold him. It was probably best he forget about the baby, too. Forget about all of them. The only other one he even knew by sight was Tobias, and that was because it was impossible to mistake that head of blond hair for anyone but who it belonged to—Reven. Who, thankfully, Geralt hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing in quite some time. Even when they were both at the keep, they ignored each other.

It was closer to the evening when Geralt finally found Vesemir; rather, Vesemir found Geralt sitting by himself in the mess hall. It would be a good few days before Gardis and Gweld returned home, so Geralt would spend those days in wistful solitude. He didn’t mind the solitude; it was hard not to get used to it, given his profession.

Vesemir sitting beside him was a welcome distraction. Geralt looked at him, offering a brief and crooked smile, before resting into his hand. Vesemir looked particularly tired, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose before he spoke.

“Left something for you in your room,” he muttered. “It’s hidden beneath the cloak you always wear.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Snooping through my things?”

“Don’t be daft,” Vesemir snorted. “I can’t speak of it out like this, but you’ll need it.” Vesemir was suddenly tugging at his collar like it was _hot_ , but Geralt noticed the subtly well enough to figure out what it meant. There was only one string around his neck—his medallion. Not the key.

“I take it you have a plan, then?” Geralt asked.

Vesemir nodded. “We’ll talk about it when your friends are back. Their help will be required. Won’t be happening until spring.”

“He could be pregnant again, by then,” Geralt hissed.

“And if he is, he’ll have the choice to get rid of it—something he does not have right now.” Vesemir snapped back. “I know what I’m doing, boy. There are herbs and concoctions out there in plenty to get rid of a pregnancy.”

“Right.” Geralt sighed and rubbed his face. “On edge,” he muttered. This was big. This was important. This was something that had _risk_ attached to it.

Vesemir understood and gave Geralt a firm pat on the back. He didn’t have any words to offer, but the company was enough.

Gweld returned home two days after Geralt did, and he did so without a horse. He looked a bit worse for wear, but still walked and talked like everything was fine. As his story went, he was attacked by a wraith on his way back to Kaer Morhen that he was most certainly not prepared for; he’d been too exhausted to be prepared for anything. The horse died, and he’d hiked his way back up through the pass. Else, he might have even been home before Geralt.

Geralt would have seen him, if that were the case, but the story made good enough talk over ale and dinner that they could share a laugh. Gweld could brush anything off like nobody’s business. He found the whole business to be hilarious, even if it were just as likely that his horse broke a leg on the pass and just needed to be put out of its misery. Gweld made it back in one piece, as did all of his things, so it was a non-issue. There wouldn’t be any issues until Gardis returned.

“Vesemir has a plan,” Geralt muttered. They’d just left the mess hall and were heading back towards their own rooms; snow was settling in for the night, making everything cold and plainly miserable. “You’ll help, right?”

“Course.” Gweld shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? Suppose we need Gardis, too, or you’d be telling me about this plan a few hours ago.”

Geralt made a noise of confirmation. Just a grunt.

“Best get on to sleep, then.” Gweld slapped Geralt’s shoulder. “Can’t do any daring rescue missions if we’re on our asses tired.”

“You should see to your wounds.”

“But a scratch, my good Witcher.” Gweld made an overtly and playfully fancy bow. “I shall see you in the morrow, Master Witcher.” Then, with a wink, Gweld turned on his heel and waved over his shoulder, off to his own room.

Geralt snorted, overtly amused. He went back to his own room after that, where he was met with only half of a mess. He had yet to actually put away all of his things. He’d put away what he’d left on the bed, but most everything else was still sitting on the desk. He should put it away, seeing how long he would be here, but packing and unpacking was a waste of time. Geralt hung Eskel’s cloak up on a carved stand near his door, then moved over to the desk.

His satchel had a potion of cat inside, thunderbolt, and blizzard. One of each, and nothing more. No sense in unpacking that; they wouldn’t be unusable by the time he needed to be back on the Path, anyway. There were a few herbs, too, which he could just toss into the flame in the hearth. There was his knife, too, usually strapped onto his belt but in the satchel in times he didn’t need it. He had flint in steel, the folded-up deed to his property, and a bit of rolled up cloth to act as bandage. None of that needed to be unpacked, so he simply closed the satchel and hung it from the same rod as his cloak.

The saddle bag was a different story, and the longer Geralt looked at it, the more he didn’t care. There were four of them, really, all attached by the same strap. Half of it was stuff he could leave here, and the other half was stuff he could leave packed, and he didn’t have the energy to discern what was what. He just left the saddle bag where it was, then returned to the side of his bed. No one ever said he had to settle in for the winter, and he rarely had visitors who would see what state he’d left his room in.

Geralt worked off his boots, then laid back in bed. His armor was set up neatly on a chair in the corner, his swords hung off the back. His boots stayed at the side of the bed. He laid back, hands folded over his chest, over his medallion, wearing only his breeches and a loose, unlaced shirt. Geralt took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

An hour had passed. Maybe two, maybe even four or five—it was impossible to tell. Geralt suddenly jolted awake at the sound of shouting. Something had knocked straight into his door, and the shouting was right behind it. Geralt threw himself out of bed then went for the door. What was happening? He pulled it open, just the slightest crack between the wood and the wall and looked outside. It was dark beyond the first few feet, but Geralt could see the snow. He could _smell_ the blood—he closed the door, immediately.

Geralt went for his armor, first. He dressed as quickly as he could manage, then pushed his boots on. Swords were strapped to his back. They had a plan. They were going to have a plan, but improvising worked just as fucking well. Geralt grabbed his cloak, his satchel, and he made sure that that key was around his neck. The satchel went over his shoulders, and he hung the cloak from it. Secured. Then, he ran from the door. He leapt over the dead body at his door, turning only to look back at it. Someone he didn’t recognize, and they wore no medallion.

They were under attack. Geralt rummaged through his satchel as he ran down the stairs, and once he found the cat potion, he drank it back and threw the vial to the side. He could hear shouting, screaming—shrieks of death. The whole yard stank of terror and bloodshed. Swords clanged; fire roared up. Even in the snow, half of the keep was on _fire_. He had to get to the bastion. It was ringing in his head, his painful and only objective.

_If you can only save one of us, save Emiel._

Geralt ran. He didn’t have time to look for anyone. He didn’t even have time to leave a thought off—was Vesemir alright? What about Gweld? Had Gardis come home in the night and been immediately met with swords, or had he never even made it home? Killed on the pass? Geralt kept running. He drew forth his steel sword and met blades with a man covered in a foul alpha stench. Anger. He knew how to fight, but Geralt had the upper edge. He could see in the dark where the man couldn’t.

Geralt turned on his heel, ducking down to doge a horizontal strike, then came up with his own. He stabbed the man right through the underside of his chin, through his head, then yanked back his sword and kept running. He knew the keep as well as anything. He knew the ways to go, but he didn’t bother for any paths or doors. Geralt met blades with another just before he reached the half-broken wall with the battlement.

All it took was one swing of his sword to disorient this man—a beta who smelled so horribly of other’s fear that Geralt wouldn’t peg him for anyone but a slaver. Geralt grabbed for the wall, hoisting himself up. The beta proved himself to be smarter than he looked, because he followed. He’d taken one look at what Geralt was doing and knew the exact path to follow in the stones to get to the top. By the time he did, Geralt was already down towards the battlement, looking back with only a brief and angry glance.

The man followed, but Geralt leapt from the battlement down to the wall below. The man pursued further. There were already men in here. Geralt didn’t have to look, but he could _hear_ Varin shouting with every strike of his sword, every push through effort still clouded over in wounded sleep. These Witchers would _die_ protecting the children, and Geralt knew it. He would die protecting his son.

He ran to the end of the wall and had no time for the ladder. He took one look at the man behind him, trying to gauge his timing—it didn’t matter. Geralt leapt and only barely managed to grab the next wall. He pulled himself up, over, then slid down the other side. Not a moment after his feet hit the ground, there were more feet to follow. Geralt blocked the man’s first strike, only having barely turned around. They traded blows, back and forth, until Geralt swirled around and cleaved the man’s head clean off.

Geralt panted. Watched the dead man hit the ground, his head somewhere else. Who were these people? He looked out to the yard, still panting. Who _were_ they? Varin wasn’t alone, but he could use help. Geralt could help. And he didn’t. He turned on his heels and scramble forward towards the door, which he tore through to get into the building. No one had yet made it this far, but that didn’t mean they would. He tried to remember his way through the bastion; his heart was deceptively and remarkably calm.

This was the worst thing he could have ever imagined.

“Emiel!” He shouted, dashing down towards the left. “Emiel!”

There came no response, so Geralt kept running. He bashed his way through every door he came across. Room after room after room—storage, barracks, storage. He could smell where people cowered, where the boys were hiding, and he prayed to whatever deity would head that of a Witcher that these boys were not found. No boy deserved to die by the blade.

He kept running, kept shouting. When he came across a locked door, he didn’t hesitate to kick it down. His strength roared right through the door, and it nearly fell off its hinges. The boys were all hiding in their beds, but one was empty.

“Emiel?” He called into the dark room. He saw one boy peek up from his blanket, who pointed all the way to the end of the room. The empty bunk—of course. Geralt rushed down the hall of beds, grabbing one to ease his turn to the side.

There he was. Emiel. Sitting on the floor with his hands around his ears, quaking on the floor and stinking of terror. Geralt could barely catch his breath. He moved forward, dropping down to his knee and pulling Emiel’s hands from his ears. He still wore his medallion, and his eyes were blue.

“Emiel,” Geralt breathed. “Emiel, you have to come with me. We have to go—”

“No!” Emiel fought when Geralt tried to drag him to his feet. “No! Get away from me!” He didn’t know who Geralt was. He had no _reason_ to know who Geralt was.

“Emiel! We have to go—” Geralt shook his head, swallowing. “We have to get Mommy, and we have to run—”

“No, no, no!” Emiel shouted. “They said stay right here. I’m not—” Emiel’s mouth dropped open and his voice went silent the moment Geralt drew Axii in the air before him.

“You will keep silent,” Geralt said. “Stay with me, do not speak, and close your eyes.”

Emiel did exactly that. He did not speak, his eyes fell shut, and he let Geralt pull him forward. The other boys watched with fear, because nobody knew who Geralt was. Clearly a Witcher, maybe, but this looked as well a kidnapping to any young boy as it felt like for Geralt. He threw Emiel over his shoulder, shifted to hold him better, then ran back for the door. He cast Yrden on the floor right before the door, then made sure it was closed tightly. A Witcher would sense it and know to disarm the trap, but these enemies might perish. At the very least, be weakened enough that even boys had a fighting chance.

Geralt took Emiel and he ran back the way he came. He brandished his sword with a grip so tightly that his knuckles had turned white beneath his gloves. He could feel Emiel shiver the moment they stepped outside, but Axii held, and Emiel made no noise. They might be able to sneak their way back to the main yard. Then. Eskel. Geralt had to get Eskel. He could escape like this, with Emiel, but he wouldn’t. Not while he had a chance.

“Alright,” he rumbled to himself, quietly. He pushed forward, keeping to the side of the building as he walked.

Varin was still fighting, though one of his companions had fallen. Had these people come just to kill the Witchers? Is that what they wanted? Their world would be overrun by monsters, but how many humans believed Witchers were hunting their own kind? No one could kill a Witcher faster than another Witcher, and Witchers could kill monsters with ease. Monsters hunting monsters.

Geralt pushed back towards the western wing, where Eskel would be. He had the key. He just had to get to Eskel, but— _fuck_. Geralt was unbalanced with Emiel over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t dare set the boy down. He crossed swords with another, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shiny head. Geralt tilted his body on each swing. He would die, compromised in his stance and his position, before he let Emiel come to harm.

“Die, Witcher scum!” Came the shout, and Geralt loved wicked men who shouted. War cries were overrated. Needed time. Geralt managed to find an opening, one single opening, and slitted the man’s belly before harm could come to either him or Emiel.

He left the man to bleed out in the snow; no merciful death, nothing swift, for a man who would murder his son. Geralt kept running. There was absolutely no time. Time had run _out_. Where was the chamber? He needed to think clearly. Witchers could think clearly in times of crisis; they didn’t succumb to the same panic as everyone else. Unless they did. And maybe that was exactly what Geralt was doing, but _something_ kept his legs moving.

He stuck the next man like a pig and kept running, keeping his hold around Emiel’s thighs tight. He looked like a walking target, and any man with eyes could see that. Weighed down by a six-year-old, tilted to the side and refusing to move freely. The next man who came to him fell before he ever reached the stone path Geralt walked on, but his appearance had stunned Geralt to stillness. He sensed the man but hadn’t reacted. Geralt breathed. Hard. Through the mouth.

“Geralt!” Gweld called, rushing forward. “Go, Geralt! There were a bunch of fucks headed that way. I don’t—” Gweld stopped to turn on the side, releasing his crossbow right into the mouth of another man with expert aim. “I don’t know if they know, but you have to run!”

Geralt didn’t take the time to ask questions. He ran. He could hear Gweld, _smell_ him close behind, striking down foes that would mean Geralt harm. Gweld was the best shield that he could ask for, and only needed to raise his sword once.

They made it to Eskel’s prison, and the door was still closed tightly.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Gweld said through panted breaths. “ _Hurry_.”

Geralt scrambled to unlock the door, still unwilling to let go of Emiel. He burst through the wood—Eskel was already awake, no doubt by the noise, writhing in the bed like he was trying to get free. Afraid. Geralt could smell it. He rushed forward, his hand shaky with the key. Outside, he could hear Gweld shouting. He didn’t have a lot of time.

Geralt sat Emiel down on the nightstand and signed again—stay right there. Then, he went for Eskel.

“Eskel, Eskel—it’s Geralt. We’re getting out of here,” Geralt said, though his words were hurried and slurred. He was more focused on getting the cuffs undone. It took longer than he would have liked, but soon enough, they were both clanking to the floor.

Geralt tugged on Eskel’s arms and held him steady. This was what the cloak was for—there wasn’t time to get Eskel dressed, and he was bare naked, still sporting tits from his recent pregnancy. Geralt manhandled him into the cloak, keep him protected and warm, then tugged on his arm, again.

“Eskel, we have to go.”

“ _Can_ _’t_ ,” Eskel croaked. When Geralt let him go, Eskel nearly fell back. But Geralt grabbed him and pulled, pulled him so hard that he was up out of the bed for the first time in _years_ —

There was a resounding thud that shattered Geralt’s entire existence right there, with one sound, as Eskel hit the floor.

“Eskel, no—” Geralt dropped down with him. “Eskel, we have to _go_ —” He tried it. He’d seen Axii work on Eskel before, so he tried it. _Commanded_ him to stand on his own two feet and run, but he couldn’t.

“Fuck!” Geralt shouted. He broke the sign. “Gweld!”

“We’re not looking so fucking hot—will you hurry the _fuck_ up!” Gweld shouted back. Geralt heard the next leash of a bolt, the next groan. Gweld had his sword in one hand and his crossbow in the other, fighting the fight of ten men all at once. For this. Geralt could not _fail_.

Geralt turned back to Emiel for another sign. On command, Emiel dropped down from the nightstand and onto Geralt’s back, where he locked his arms around Geralt’s neck and held. Geralt could hardly breathe, but he didn’t care. He was getting out of here, and they were both coming with him. He didn’t care what it took. He bent down to grab Eskel, hoisting him right off the ground and into his arms, one beneath his knees and another around his shoulders. Eskel didn’t have the strength to hold onto him.

“The stables!” Geralt shouted, and Gweld was never more than a few steps behind him.

They were racing _death_.

“Vesemir?” Geralt shouted over his shoulder.

“Fuck if I know!” Came Gweld’s anxious response. Was Vesemir even _alive?_

Geralt didn’t have time to think about it. Vesemir was strong enough to take care of himself. Geralt had two people with him who were not, and he had to go. Gweld was his running shield, fighting with all the strength he could muster. He downed another potion—no idea how many he’d downed already or how many he would, but it coursed through his veins and gave him more _strength_ , so he took it. Took it to the last drop then struck another man down at the knees before slicing his throat.

They burst through to the stables, and there was a lone man in there already making rounds. The horses who bid him no use were slain, and others were left alive. He hadn’t made it to Roach, yet.

“Gweld!” Geralt shouted, backing up to give Gweld the space he needed to dive in, sword at the ready. Gweld ran forward, striking the horse-slayer down with deadly accuracy. Geralt followed after in the safety as Gweld was already pulling Roach out of her stall.

“No time,” Gweld said. “Fuck the saddle. You have to leave.”

Gweld set his sword aside long enough to hold Eskel as Geralt pulled himself, Emiel still attached, up onto Roach. He took Eskel, after, and Gweld brandished his sword once more. They sufficed for a rope as a bridle, and Gweld led Roach out on as quick of feet as he could manage.

The fighting was still going on, but they went for the front gate as fast as they could. Thankfully, the front gate was close. A man on a horse attracted a lot of unfriendly attention, and Geralt had little ways to defend himself.

Gweld threw Geralt his crossbow, his bolts, then went for the door. It was a small enough crossbow to shoot one-handled; Gweld had been doing it since he’d been woken up. Geralt’s aim was just as good, and he sat from Roach’s back, one arm tightly grasped around Eskel’s shoulder, and shot men in the throats as they drew nearer.

When the gate was finally open, Geralt kicked Roach towards it. Then, he stopped right outside the gate to look back.

“Gweld—”

“Go,” Gweld urged. “I’ll make sure no one follows,” and the gates closed. That was it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none
> 
> happy holidays! as a special gift from me to you, here's a double update of the fic :3c so happy to see how many of you have stuck around to get to this point, and I've really been enjoying all the comments! Loves!

Geralt kicked into Roach’s side and send her hurdling down the pass. He could still hear the fighting from within the walls, but nobody followed after him. He could smell the blood, the soot, the fire. He could smell the _death_ that wrenched through the walls in its strength. They had to get out of here, no matter what it might mean to leave Gweld behind. Gweld knew what he was doing; he’d accepted the risk, and Geralt couldn’t take that from him.

So, he rode. Roach trotted down the pass at the fastest speed Geralt would dare take her, and then some. In his fear, his panic, he made her go faster. He was holding Eskel in his arms, who was shivering. Freezing. Eyes closed and teeth knocked together. Emiel was no better. Geralt could feel them both trembling—this was for them. He had to make sure they were safe. Horses could be replaced, but they couldn’t be.

“We’ll get somewhere soon,” Geralt promised. “Just hold on.”

And with that, he kicked into Roach’s side again to urge her to go _faster_. They wouldn’t clear the mountain pass in a night, but he was frantically searching the passing scenery for something, anything that might make way to be their saving grace. He didn’t know what they would do if he couldn’t find something. There was fighting loud enough from the keep that Geralt could hear it for miles. If it terrified him, then he could only imagine what it was doing to his passengers.

Geralt didn’t stop down the pass until they reached a cave. It was snowing, hard, and there would be no way to make it further. He didn’t have any supplies, either. Just his satchel. Everything was fucked. The ground was fucked, caked in ice, and Kaer Morhen was thoroughly fucked. Geralt knew he was lucky to make it out alive, and he wasn’t going to test that by trying to get any further down the pass than he already was. It was nearly a two-day journey, alone, and that was in good conditions. He wouldn’t risk lives with the need for an escape. Hiding was just as easy.

The cave was big enough for Roach to duck inside, as well, but Geralt couldn’t be on her back. They’d stopped right outside for him to figure out how to dismount, taking Eskel and Emiel with him. He’d basically slid off Roach’s back and into the snow, barely managing to catch himself with the weight on his back. Then, he breathed. They went in, deep enough into the cave that they would be safe. He didn’t smell anything save for year old moldy dirt at the back, wet from something beneath the mountain.

Once he could no longer see the light at the front of the cave, he settled. Roach stopped, and Geralt could finally set Eskel down. It was probably less comfortable than his bed had been, given that it was pure rock, but Eskel didn’t complain as he was set down. He looked dazed, confused, but not entirely unhappy. His eyes were focused somewhere else—the little arms still wrapped around Geralt’s neck. Geralt dealt with Emiel next, prying him off.

Geralt broke the sign, and Emiel stumbled back now that he had his mind to himself. He looked wildly around their space, eyes wide with fear. He couldn’t see anything in the dark, but Geralt could light a quick fire with Igni. The flint and steel in his satchel were really just for emergency, when he was too exhausted to cast. This fire rose quickly. There was something already there to light, a brazier of sorts. Geralt didn’t know where they were, but he didn’t have time to question a ready-made cave. In that sudden light, Geralt watched.

Emiel turned right around at the sound of his name, and the sight of Eskel stilled him right where he stood. Emiel breathed deeply, and for a moment, Geralt was sure Emiel didn’t know who he was looking at. Eskel looked so different. He was gaunt and pale with his face scarred down the right side. His hair was long, down to his mid back, by now. He desperately needed it cut. Eskel looked inhuman—he had the shape of someone who was meant to be large, wide, but all of his muscle had rotted away in that prison. He was a skeleton beneath that cloak.

But he was Eskel. He would always be Eskel, smelling of orange blossom, leather, and pine. Emiel knew who he was, instantly.

“M-Mommy—” Emiel broke down to tears and collapsed, falling forward into Eskel’s lap and grabbing him right around the neck, hugging him. Eskel couldn’t return the strength, but he draped an arm around Emiel’s back and held at his shoulder.

“Mommy—!” Emiel’s voice _shook_ with his tears. His whole body quaked as he held only tighter. His face was buried in Eskel’s neck, in his hair, and Eskel’s chin rested on his shoulder. From right there, Eskel looked at Geralt.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just breathed, gave a weak smile, and leaned back into the wall of the cave. He’d imagined this so many times in his head, but his imagination could never live up to this. Emiel wept hard enough that his body shook, and Eskel used whatever strength he had left to hold his son again. In his arms. Against him. It didn’t take more than a moment for Eskel to start crying, too.

“Emiel,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and misuse. “I’m here,” he said, petting through Emiel’s hair. “I’m here.”

Emiel didn’t let go of Eskel until they had both stopped crying, and even then, Emiel was still visibly shaking, visibly shaken. There were still fat little tears in his eyes when he pulled back, but Eskel couldn’t raise a hand to wipe them. He just rested there while Emiel looked at him, took him in from his weakness to his disfigured face. Eskel didn’t smile at him, but his eyes were bright just at the sight. Emiel was sitting in his lap, little hands clenched weakly in his cloak. His _cloak_. Things were going to be alright.

When Eskel’s head went limp to one side, Emiel nearly lost it.

“Mommy? Mommy!” Emiel shouted, shook him, and even tried to hit him back awake—but Geralt was quick across the cave before that could happen.

He grabbed Emiel. “He’s just asleep,” Geralt insisted. “Be calm, now, he’s just asleep.” When he heard Emiel breathe, Geralt let go of his wrists.

Geralt sat down in the middle of the cave, and his body blocked the light of the fire. They still might be seen from outside, but that was only if someone knew to come looking. He settled Emiel down at Eskel’s side, leaning into the cave wall. Emiel looked like a mess, rough and disheveled from the hell he’d just been put through. He wouldn’t remember any of it with Axii’s effects, but that was almost a good thing. When Emiel looked up at Geralt, he did it with the same wonderment he always had. The wonder of a child looking at a stranger.

“Who are you?” Emiel asked, and it _hurt_ to hear the question again. But this time, he could tell Emiel. He didn’t have to keep it a secret to protect anyone. The only thing he had to protect them from now were monsters and the elements, and he could fight those better than he’d ever been able to fight Rennes.

“I’m—” but it felt strange, still, to say, like Geralt didn’t know the word well enough to utter it. Wasn’t worth of it, maybe. What had he done that a father did? “Your father,” Geralt said, finally.

Emiel stared at him, wide-eyed.

Geralt swallowed hard around nothing. “That’s a lot to hear,” he decided. It must have been, from the look on Emiel’s face. “Don’t think of me like that, if it’s too much. I can just be Geralt.”

Emiel’s bottom lip began to quiver. He had apparently not cried himself out in Eskel’s shoulder. There were more tears for the moment.

“A-all the other boys who remembered talked about their fathers,” Emiel hiccupped. “I—I couldn’t remember mine. I— _wanted_ one.” Just like that, Emiel dashed forward to clear the space between them. He threw himself at Geralt, his arms around Geralt’s neck in the tightest squeeze he could muster, and Geralt held him back.

Geralt closed his eyes and just _breathed_ for a moment, pressing his nose into Emiel’s hair, his neck, just to remember him. Know him. He’d missed Emiel so much and having this weight back in his arms was the fruition of so many dreams, he’d lost count. Emiel was shaking from the cold as much as his own tears, pouring down his cheeks and into Geralt’s skin where Emiel had his face pressed. He wanted to know Geralt’s scent as much as Geralt needed to know his. To _remember_.

“I—I remember someone visiting,” Emiel worked out. He was breathing hard, and Geralt just patted his back. “Was— Was that you? Did you—?”

“It was me,” Geralt said, holding him somehow _tighter_. “I was always trying to see you. Thinking about you. Emiel—” Geralt choked on something. Something like air, like sadness, something overwhelming. He didn’t know, but he felt Emiel’s little arms wrap around him tighter, with the sort of strength that a boy his size shouldn’t have.

“Please don’t make me call you Geralt,” Emiel whispered. Whimpered.

Geralt shook his head. “You can call me whatever you want,” he said. He stroked his fingers through Emiel’s hair, and wished, then, that he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Daddy,” Emiel sobbed against him, curling in closer, tighter. “ _Daddy_ —”

Geralt shushed him, shifting them so Emiel was off his own feet, entirely. Geralt supported him under his thighs, and Emiel’s legs pressed into his sides. Geralt rocked him, bounced him slightly like he’d always done with Emiel was just a baby.

“I love you, so much,” Geralt muttered into Emiel’s hair. “Your mommy loves you too, do you know that? He loved you from the moment he saw you. Never stopped thinking about you, asking for you. Told him everything I knew.”

Emiel hiccupped again, and Geralt patted his back. Helped him work through the sobbing until he could pull back with enough confidence to wipe furiously at his face. His little red face, eyes swollen up with tears. Geralt brushed his hair out of his eyes, still a mop of curls.

“What happened to Mommy?” Emiel asked, his voice mostly stuttered still as he cried.

Geralt looked over Emiel’s shoulder at Eskel, who was sound asleep. This was the question he was dreading to answer, because what child needed to know this? Emiel was six years old. He didn’t need to know the horrors that Eskel went through, nor did he need to know the mass of half-siblings he had. He just needed to know that things were going to be alright.

“Your mommy got hurt,” Geralt said. “He got hurt very badly after you were born, and he—” a gulp, “—still hasn’t recovered.” Geralt looked at Emiel.

“Is he going to be alright? Is— Is my mommy going to be okay?”

Geralt nodded. “He’s going to need a very long time to get better, but he will. We’ll take care of him, won’t we?”

Emiel nodded, then fell back into Geralt. Geralt shifted, fire be damned, and moved to sit against the wall with Eskel. He kept Emiel in his lap, alternating between patting his back and rubbing it. It didn’t take long for Emiel to fall asleep, too, once his little heart had stopped beating so fast. That left Geralt entirely alone.

In the silence, he could think about what had happened. The gravity of it. He hadn’t had time to think. He hadn’t let himself think about any of it, not while Eskel and Emiel were awake and listening. But now, he could think about _all_ of it. He hadn’t tried to find Vesemir. He’d left Gweld there—they could both be dead, and Geralt didn’t do a damn thing to help. He’d run. He hadn’t stayed to fight. He hadn’t helped anyone. He’d seen his own brothers dead in the grass, and he hadn’t done _anything_.

Now, he was sitting in the first cave of the Witchers, as if it would help him. He remembered being brought down here before they’d undergone the Grasses. This was where Witchers were first made. It was a horrific, deathly place, and Geralt was somehow hoping it would protect his family against a weathering storm, against the group that had come to kill them. Geralt squeezed Emiel tighter against him and rested his chin on Emiel’s head, trying to keep himself grounded.

He was fine. There was no need for theatrics or for dramatics. He had to keep a level head, or he would never get them down the mountain. They had a long road ahead of them, and Geralt could only hope they’d be able to make it. It was easier to think about that then about what had just happened. Instead of picturing Gweld’s face, hearing the last words he’d spoken, Geralt thought about where he might stop to get them food, water, and clothes. Instead of picturing Vesemir, dead on the ground, he held Emiel just a bit tighter.

It didn’t take much longer before Eskel woke up. He shifted slightly against the wall, but was essentially stuck in whatever position he’d been set down in. Geralt didn’t turn his head to watch, though he saw Eskel move from the corner of his eye. Seeing him that weak was something awful; Geralt would have to come to terms with it, eventually, especially when they made it down to Ellander, but for the moment, he didn’t have to. So, he didn’t.

He only looked when Eskel had stopped moving, and when he did, Eskel’s eyes met his. Golden as ever but just as dead, too, looking at Geralt like he didn’t know quite what to expect. He’d been woken in a startle, and everything after that had been a terrible blur. Eskel was left aching, and he could only remember the vaguest reasons why.

“Where are we?” Eskel breathed out.

“A cave,” Geralt replied. “We’re safe, for now. Wait out the snowstorm and then continue down the mountain.”

Eskel nodded. “Where—” he swallowed; his voice was still hoarse. “Where are we going?”

“Temeria,” Geralt said, and Eskel visibly relaxed.

“You said it’s warm.”

Geralt nodded. “Not always, but warmer than it is up here.” He thought he might see Eskel smile—finally—but there came no smile. Not even the twitch of his lips. Eskel just settled back into the cave wall a little less tense than he’d been a moment before. Maybe that was a smile; it just wasn’t the one Geralt wanted to see.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt said.

“Emmie,” Eskel muttered. He even reached out with nothing more but a movement of his hand, but Geralt understood. He shifted, careful not to wake Emiel up, then laid the boy in Eskel’s arms. Eskel held Emiel against his chest and went right back to sleep. Emiel didn’t so much as shift.

With that, Geralt stood up. He didn’t think he could sleep if he tried, though a cave was hardly the worst place to take a nap. There was too much to think about, too much to worry about. Someone needed to be awake in case this cave was not as safe as Geralt thought it was. He pushed himself up to his feet, listened to the joints in his knees crack from the position he’d been stuck in, then stretched. Outside, he could still see the snow falling and hear the echo of the wind through the cave. It would be some time before they could leave, but that also meant they would likely not be followed.

“Stay here, Roach,” Geralt muttered, offering her neck a light pat.

He turned towards the cave and took his first step back into it. This was the site of the first Witchers. Where they first went through the Grasses. Geralt remembered it well and wished he didn’t. He still remembered his own experience with the trial; it was hard not to think about it as he stepped into the cave. Every footstep echoed through, and it was the only sound he heard. He expected a place like this to be crawling with monsters and darkness, but not yet. Soon, he imagined.

Geralt went as far as he could go before he could see no more. The cat was wearing off, and he didn’t have any more. It was a nice enough walk to stretch his legs out, so he needn’t go any further. Geralt turned back and walked towards the fire. He stood just beside it, looking down at where Eskel and Emiel were sleeping. He even cracked a small smile as thoughts poured through his head that this was how it was meant to be. Eskel was meant to have Emiel in his arms, even if they were nearly seven years too late.

Morning dawned and the snow left with the night. Geralt hadn’t slept, though he had meditated off and on to reserve his strength. The had a long way to go before they reached Temeria, and he feared that it would be a slow, arduous trip. He had just enough coin to get them some supplies in the next town, but after that, they’d have to figure something out. Food would be easy enough to hunt for, but the very idea of leaving Eskel and Emiel alone in a camp sent shivers down Geralt’s spine.

He readied Roach as much as he could. A rope bridle and nothing but her back, but he at least took her out of the cave. He didn’t know how he was going to do this. Eskel wasn’t strong enough to sit on Roach by himself; she would surely be able to carry all three of them, but how would he even get all three of them _on_ her. Geralt took a deep breath and just patted her side. He would figure it out. For the moment, he left Roach just outside the cave and ducked back inside.

Inside, Emiel was beginning to stir awake. Eskel’s hold on him was nonexistent, but upon opening his eyes and realizing he was lying back in Eskel’s lap, he didn’t move very far. He just shifted to be more comfortable; he had the perfect seat to watch as Geralt came back into the cave. Emiel yawned and rubbed his face as Geralt came up to kneel in front of him.

“Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Emiel muttered. “Where did you go?”

“Outside. We have to get ready to leave. Have you ever ridden a horse, before?”

Emiel shook his head. “We were gonna start in the spring.”

“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Get you your own horse someday and everything. Come on.” Geralt took hold under Emiel’s arms and pulled him up into his own. Emiel muttered something and just rested against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Mommy’s coming too, right?”

Geralt patted Emiel’s back. “Yes, Mommy’s coming too.” He’d worked too hard for this to leave either of them behind. Emiel was just easier to get set up.

Geralt took him over to Roach and lifted him up to sit on her back. “You want to squeeze with your legs,” he said, “so you don’t fall off. Can you do that?”

Emiel did just that and gripped his little fingers into Roach’s mane like a lifeline. He just needed to hold himself up there until Geralt could get everything situated. The actual riding lesson would come later, when Emiel was bigger, or they had acquired a smaller horse. Roach was too big for him to ride.

Geralt went back into the cave and knelt down beside Eskel, then, making sure to move slowly and carefully. He stroked along the side of Eskel’s face, curling his hair back behind his ear. Just the touch was enough to wake Eskel, and he did so with a jolt. A fright. He nearly knocked himself backwards, but Geralt steadied him by the shoulder.

“It’s just me,” Geralt said. “It’s Geralt.”

Eskel nodded. “I’m sorry—”

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing to apologize for. We have to get moving. Can I lift you?”

Eskel didn’t exactly have a cause to refuse, though he still looked hesitant, a bit sick, as Geralt came closer and grabbed him. It was the smell of _alpha_ , a smell that Eskel had absolutely no positive connotation with. Even if his own scent lingered within Geralt’s, because this was _his_ alpha, Eskel couldn’t discern the difference, anymore. Geralt lifted him up into the air and walked him out to the end of the cave. In the light, without Axii to cloud his mind, Emiel could really _see,_ now, the extent of Eskel’s injury.

It took some struggling and some hard effort, but Geralt managed to get Eskel up onto Roach. In the next second, he hoisted himself up onto her back, just in time to help steady Eskel. Eskel tried to lean forward, unwilling to lean back and into that scent he couldn’t stand, but when Roach started moving, Eskel had no choice. The only way he was staying on this horse was if Geralt held him. Geralt could have very easily swiped Eskel’s hair aside and use the bond mark to command obedience, but the thought frankly never crossed Geralt’s mind. He wanted Eskel to be as comfortable as possible.

The ride was the noisiest one that Geralt had ever taken. Almost everything out here was something brand new that Emiel had never seen, and he asked about _all_ of it. What were the white flowers, the yellow ones? Why were some trees so tall and some so short? Why was snow melted in some places but stacked up high in others? Geralt answered the questions he could, but they just kept coming. Emiel was excited, now that he was awake; he didn’t quite understand the point of all this, either. He just knew something was happening.

Emiel eventually quieted down when things got less and less new. He still asked questions from time to time, but they were normal questions. He had nearly seven years of time to make up for, so he wanted to know everything he could about Geralt—his _father_. Just like before, Geralt answered what he could. He essentially told Emiel his life story; he was a Witcher, had been for several years. It meant he fought monsters for coin. He hadn’t been all over the map yet, but he hoped one day that he would. He wanted to go everywhere. Emiel wanted to go everywhere too.

Emiel knew he was being trained to be a Witcher, too. He’d been pulled right out of it, though, which left an uneasy and unspoken question hanging in the air. Would he ever become a Witcher? He hadn’t even undergone the Grasses, yet, though Geralt loathed to think of what that might mean. There were other schools for Witchers, but Geralt had never heard anything nice about them. Not from the Wolves, anyway. He didn’t know how much of it was true and how much of it was meant to simply foster rivalry.

“I’m hungry,” Emiel suddenly piqued up, and he rubbed his belly to prove it.

“Be in town soon,” Geralt rumbled. “We’ll get food there.” He hoped he had enough, but if he didn’t, he could forgo food to make sure Emiel and Eskel were fed.

It was a town that Geralt had never been to before, or at least, he couldn’t remember being here. His plan was to take back roads down to Ellander instead of traveling the main road; better to not be found, that way, even if the roads were longer and less safe. He could fight off a monster, but not an entire league of foes if the attackers at Kaer Morhen were to appear, again. The town stank of mud and piss, but it had a functioning tavern. Most small piss-towns did.

Geralt stopped Roach right outside of it and steadied her. He worried about having to dismount, but it was in the horror of reality that they realized quickly that Emiel could support Eskel’s weight. Maybe not forever, but long enough that Geralt could go inside and get them something to eat for the road. It was quite a sight—Eskel leaning forward onto their _child_ for support, but it was the situation they were in. Geralt didn’t have a moment to dwell.

He dismounted Roach and went for the tavern, immediately. Geralt went in looking like a Witcher—dressed completely in his armor, his swords on his back, and his medallion hanging from his throat. He was met with the sort of glares he expected to find, but he still approached the counter. A woman was back there sweeping up dust and dirt as if it wouldn’t settle back down in an instant.

“What do you want?” She spat. “Don’t got no monsters, here, and we ain’t paying you for shite. Leave!”

“Just need food,” he said. “I can pay—”

“Did you not hear me? I said _leave_!”

“Listen to me!” Geralt snapped. “I’ve got a _child_ out there. I need food—”

“And I don’t _serve_ Witchers and whatever monster children they have. I said get out, before things get messy.”

And they were going to get messy, quickly. Geralt could already hear other patrons in the tavern getting restless, just as unhappy to see a Witcher here as the woman was. Geralt didn’t have time for this. He didn’t _want_ to cut down the whole tavern, but if they attacked, what choice would he have? All he wanted was the food, so— _fuck_. Geralt had already made some questionable decisions, so he did it again. He cast it right in front of the woman and made his order.

“Yes…” Her tune changed instantly. “Right away… bread, fish…” She muttered to herself and walked off.

“You see that!” A man shouted. “The Witcher’s playing mind games!”

Geralt just grumbled to himself. “You stay in your damn seat and you keep your life,” he growled over his shoulder. “Be on my way as soon as I get that _food_.”

Oh, they all talked a big talk, but so few of them walked it, too. Geralt had learned that. A well-placed threat and he was fine, left alone. It worked the same here. The men all clambered to themselves and sat back down to drink their too-early piss tasting ale, and Geralt took the basket of food he was offered. Just for good measure, he left only half of what it would have cost on the counter. He didn’t care. He headed back out of the tavern and to Roach.

Once they were on the road again, Geralt passed food up to Emiel, who happily took it to wrench apart with his teeth. He was taken care of, happily satiated, so Geralt turned his attention to Eskel. Eskel was leaning back into his chest, against his shoulder, no matter how much he didn’t want to be. Geralt hated knowing that it was _him_ making Eskel look so sick, but they had little options.

“We’ll get there as fast as we can,” Geralt told him. “Can you eat by yourself?”

Eskel nodded. He looked like he wanted to speak, but didn’t have the energy to do so, so he said nothing. Geralt handed him a piece of bread, first, and let him chew his way through that. They had such a long way to go, and Geralt could only hope the traveling wasn’t too bad. There was so much they needed to talk about, needed to come to an understanding for, but he swallowed down all of his questions, his concerns. Eskel needed to recover first. Maybe not fully, but he needed at least to regain some of his strength.

The first night they stopped was by a river. There were plenty of trees, plenty of grass, and plenty of space. Geralt helped Eskel down first, then got him situated up against a tree in the most comfortable place he could have found outside. It was _still_ better than the cave, and even better than the blasted bed. Eskel settled against the tree contentedly, without complaints. When Geralt got Emiel down, the first thing Emiel did was dash down to the riverbed.

“Be careful,” Geralt gruffed. They didn’t have anything to unpack, not really, but Geralt at least took the time to start a fire. He could hear Emiel playing in the water, but as long as Emiel didn’t fall flat on his face and drown, the river wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous. It was just deep enough for fish, which Geralt would attempt to catch. In the meantime, though, he just took a seat on the ground beside Eskel. There was enough space between them that Eskel didn’t flinch or try to recoil.

“We’ll stop in the next town,” Geralt muttered. “Provided they’re friendlier, I’ll find you some clothes.”

“Clothes…” Eskel muttered, lolling his head to the side so he could watch Emiel in the river. “Been awhile.”

Geralt swallowed hard. “I—” but what was he supposed to say?

“Did the best you could.” Eskel seemed to know it was an apology on Geralt’s tongue. He tilted his head to the left, to instead look at Geralt. “Looked forward to you every year. Even if—” Eskel breathed deeply, shifting. “Wish you were closer.”

Geralt shook his head. “No, you don’t. Seen the way you react.”

Eskel hummed. “Suppose so, maybe. Wish I didn’t react that way, then. I know you won’t hurt me.”

Geralt looked at him and tried not to list off, right there, every way he had hurt Eskel. The imprisonment was his fault. The scars on Eskel’s face were _his_ fault. One day, they would talk about it, but now wasn’t the right time.

“It’s cold,” Eskel said.

“I know. Just try to rest, Eskel. We’ll be on the road again in the morning.”

“You rest, too.”

Geralt shook his head. “Have to catch dinner and make sure Emiel doesn’t have too much fun.”

Eskel hummed and just watched as Geralt pulled himself up from the ground. Geralt tread down to the riverbank and took a seat on an old, half-rotted log that had washed up to shore some weeks prior. It was half covered in snow, but Geralt sat down on a part that was clear. Emiel came over to him immediately, holding a rather small and wriggling fish tightly in his hands.

“Look, Daddy, look,” Emiel laughed. “I caught a fish.”

“You did.” Geralt confirmed. “Do you want to learn what to do with a fish? Go up and get my knife from the satchel.” Geralt took the fish by the tail, and Emiel dashed back to their not-quite-a-camp to find Geralt’s knife.

When Emiel returned, Geralt took the knife from him, too. Then, though this fish wasn’t quite large enough to make anything like a decent meal, it was small enough to be the perfect example for Emiel. He was about the age where they started learning survival skills. He showed Emiel how to best kill the fish, then how to cut it open from the belly up. Emiel made fake gagging noises as Geralt pulled out the guts but followed with curiosity down to the edge of the river.

“Not a lot of fish in the winter,” Geralt said, “so you have to know how to work with what you have.”

Emiel nodded along with big eyes and parted lips. He watched Geralt clean the fish in the river, and then looked closely as Geralt showed off what the fish was supposed to look like. If it wasn’t properly clean, one risked eating feces and other manners of disgusting things. To that, Emiel grimaced.

Then, with a good solid rock, Geralt showed Emiel how to scrape off the scales. He cut the head off, next, not quite in the mood for eating fish brains and eyes—only if he was desperate, and Emiel laughed. They found a stick from which to hang the cut open fish, and then Geralt took Emiel back up to the fire. He got the fish set with the stick, then let Emiel hold that stick above the fire.

“Don’t want to hold it too high or it won’t cook,” Geralt said. “Hold it too low, and it catches flame.”

“How do I know when it’s cooked?” Emiel asked, bouncing excitedly on the rock he was seated on.

“You’ll smell it, promise. Don’t know how you found this fish, either, but I’m going to go see if there are more. Mommy needs to eat, too.”

Emiel nodded, then wriggled down into a comfortable position to cook his fish. Geralt left him there to go back down to the riverbed and see if there were any more stupidly hungry fish that he could just snatch out of the water. If not, he’d try trapping for hares in the trees; as long as he could find _something_ , it didn’t matter what it was.

Emiel watched his fish, making sure to hold it exactly where Geralt had showed him. Every now and again, his glance shifted through the fire and over to Eskel, sitting against that tree. Eskel was wrapped up entirely in that cloak, where even his arms were tucked inside. He looked to be half-asleep, but the labor of his breath said otherwise. He was very much awake, and perhaps not doing as okay as he might have otherwise said. Emiel just glanced at him, then back to his fish. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, or if he was supposed to say anything at all.

There was no fear, when Emiel looked at Eskel, just confusion. He didn’t know what had happened, but he was smart enough to know that something _had_ , in fact, happened. Those scars on his face were too deep and strangled to be an accident. The fact that Eskel was as gaunt as he was, too, said something was wrong. Emiel had never seen anything like it. He wasn’t afraid of Eskel, just afraid of what had happened to him.

He only sat along with his thoughts for a few moments before Geralt returned to camp. He’d managed to catch a bigger fish, one that he’d already cleaned a butchered, and was settling down to cook it for Eskel. Geralt could suffice on little. It was part of the training. If Eskel was ever going to regain his strength, he needed real food, and he needed a lot of it.

“Is my fish done, Daddy?” Emiel asked sheepishly.

Geralt took one sniff of the air and shook his head. “Not yet. Lower it a bit.” He didn’t even look up from where he was settling his own fish and stick. Emiel did what he was told, though, and lowered the fish just slightly into the fire. Then, there was another bout of silence.

“When are we going home?” Emiel asked, suddenly.

Geralt sighed and shifted in the grass, half snow and half melted wetness. “We’re never going back to Kaer Morhen,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Have a new home in Temeria. That’s where we’re going.”

“Why did we have to leave?” Emiel asked, looking from his fish to Geralt. Geralt just sighed again. These were hard questions with harder answers that Emiel wouldn’t understand. Emiel had started to open up, grow into his other classmates. Geralt had ripped him away from routine, security, and even friends. Emiel had a right to know why he’d lost all of that, but Geralt wasn’t about to tell a six-year-old what had happened to Eskel.

“There were bad men there,” Geralt decided. “Bad men who wanted to hurt your mommy, so we had to go.”

Emiel looked at Eskel through the flames then and nodded. “Am I still going to be a Witcher?” He asked.

“If you want to be, I’ll find a way,” Geralt promised. He would. Even if it meant going to another school just to beg, he would do it. Only if that’s what Emiel wanted. “Think about it for a while, okay? We don’t have to make any decisions until we get home.”

Emiel didn’t respond after that, but by the purse of lips, Geralt could tell he wasn’t happy. He would come to understand, when he was older, and unfortunate that just meant they were all right back where they’d started. Waiting on time.

They left in the morning before the sun was up. Geralt angled Roach back towards the road they’d been taking, and off they went. They had leftovers from the tavern for breakfast and drank river water, however inadvisable that might have been. They road straight through until the next town which, thankfully, proved to be kinder to Witchers than the first had been. Geralt got them more food—dried meat, cheese, and a bit of stale bread—and then focused on what they’d stopped for.

Eskel needed clothes. He hadn’t worn any proper clothes since, well. Geralt tried not to think about the time. Just that Eskel needed some clothes or he would freeze to death before they got to warmer weather. He had no shoes; the only reason he’d made it this far was by the grace of his cloak.

They found exactly one woman in the town who made clothes. This wasn’t a large city with merchants selling things that were pre-made just to make a quick coin, and nor was this armor. They just needed _clothes_ , and thank whatever might have led them here, but the woman was kind. Understanding. Geralt gave her a brief explanation, filled with entirely too many lies about who they were and what had led them here, and she was willing to just _help_.

Geralt could have cried. He wouldn’t, because he didn’t, but he could have. Emiel stayed on Roach’s back while Geralt took Eskel into the old woman’s house, and they were there long enough for her to fit something together for him out of projects she had either discarded to be taken apart and remade for better quality or projects that she had begun but not yet finished.

“Don’t you worry now,” she said, as Geralt expressed concern. He wasn’t here to ruin another’s livelihood. “I am the fastest seamstress this side of the river.”

Geralt believed her, and he didn’t question her further. He just stood near the door where he could see Emiel through the window and keep an eye on him.

They were there for what felt like the whole day, but there was no place for them to stay in town. The sun was still up, so they could trek further. Eskel had clothes, now, and while they weren’t the best given how hastily they’d been made, it was real fabric against his skin to keep him covered. He had a real shirt over top real smallclothes and breeches. The woman even had a pair of boots to spare—old leathers that her husband had left behind when he died, rest his soul.

When they stopped for the night, that night, Eskel didn’t shiver quite as badly. He sat closer to the fire and felt less need to huddle up inside the cloak. He was almost entirely present, too, content to listen to Emiel carry on about what they’d been working on as a class before they’d left Kaer Morhen. Emiel didn’t seem to remember much of the attack, let alone that it had happened. It was almost better that he would forget. It was better he not be sullied with those sorts of dark memories.

By morning, they were off, and Geralt was promising that he would teach Emiel how to sword fight, too. He would teach him riding, archery, and swordplay. He would teach him alchemy, too, but Eskel would have to teach him the signs.

“Why?” Emiel asked.

“He’s better at them than I am,” Geralt admitted. Still, Eskel didn’t smile.

They traveled for nearly two weeks to just make it out of Kaedwen. They spent little more than a day in Aedirn, just passing through, and then they were in Temeria. Then, finally, as they reached a crossroads, the signpost pointed south to Ellander.

“That’s home,” Geralt said. Said it to both of them.

“Home?” Emiel lit up, turning around to look at Geralt, who nodded.

They didn’t have more than a week or so left of traveling. Maybe two, depending on how slow they had to go. They weren’t making good time, but that was to be expected. There were three of them on one horse, and one of them could hardly move on his own. Geralt didn’t care how long the travel took. They hadn’t encountered more dangerous problems then unfriendly townspeople, and they would have encountered that as Witchers or not.

It was the turn of the year when they arrived in Ellander, and things were covered in a fresh dusting of snow. It wasn’t the warmth Geralt had promised, but the snow also hadn’t buried anything beyond recognition as it tended to do in the mountains. The keep would be under snow if they didn’t work so hard to prevent it. This was snow fine enough to walk through, and it didn’t cause Roach to slow down, at all.

They left their final camp in the morning, a cool dawn that made the early hours on the road brisk and chilly. They stopped in no towns, and even left the road at a very particular point. They were nearly there. Geralt recognized the area, though it hadn’t been too long since he’d seen it. It all still looked the same, though the snow blanketed it and made it all look fresh. A tree had fallen in the forest in his absence, but that was easy lumber. He would come retrieve it for firewood, once he had the axe.

He kicked into Roach’s side and send her forward, just a bit faster, from a walk into a trot. He was, dare to say, _excited_. He was shaking Eskel awake before they’d even arrived, and Emiel must have known they were happening across something when he saw Geralt’s excitement, sensed it even.

Everything felt still and unreal as they finally arrived at the small cottage, nestled in the woods. There was the stable to the right side of the cottage, windows closed tight with wooden shutters. There was snow in front of the door, but Geralt could kick it away just as easily as it’d piled there.

“Welcome home,” Geralt said, and he said it quietly. He heard the way Eskel’s breath caught in his throat. Emiel cheered, his own sort of loud happiness, but Eskel was nearly in tears.

“You—” Eskel croaked, then swallowed.

“Gweld and Gardis helped me get the money,” Geralt said. “Wanted to make sure that you’d be safe.”

Eskel nodded, hurriedly. He didn’t know what to say, how to feel, just that he was looking at a _home_. A real house. A comfortable, cozy little cottage where he would be safe. The only alpha he would ever have to worry about was Geralt, and there was no worry, just a vague discomfort that he could move past, given enough time. He leaned forward, using Emiel’s shoulders for support, while Geralt dismounted. Then, Geralt reached back for him and let Eskel just fall right into his arms.

Geralt shifted until he was holding Eskel in a comfortable way, supporting him at his knees and his shoulders. Then, he stood back and beckoned for Emiel to try his first dismount. It was more or less as ungraceful as straightly falling off of Roach’s back, but Emiel landed on his feet with his arms outstretched and did a little bow. Good enough.

“Go on,” Geralt gestured to the house. “Go get the door open for me.”

Emiel _ran_ towards the door, bounding with excitement. He cleared the snow away with his boots, then dug the key out of Geralt’s satchel. Geralt had let him hold the satchel after one night of very emboldened pleas and explained to him what the key was for. Geralt had discarded the key to Eskel’s prison—his shackles—somewhere in the river. Better to let it be lost. Emiel used his key to get the door open, and then pushed it. He stepped right into the little cottage.

Geralt followed in sideways, careful to not hit Eskel’s head nor his feet on the door frame. Then, once the door was closed, he just stood there in the main area to give Eskel a chance to see it. It was mostly unfurnished, save for Geralt’s rather amateurish woodwork, but Eskel still gawked at it, entirely taken. Enamored.

“Geralt, you—” Eskel’s voice broke off as he just breathed.

Geralt hadn’t a single clue what they were going to do now that they were here. They had no clothes, no supplies, no food. Geralt didn’t even have a place to sleep; his original plan had been to just spread his bedroll out by the stove for warmth. He didn’t know how he could leave to even acquire these things with Eskel’s current condition. He didn’t know how he was going to keep his promises to Emiel. He didn’t even know what they would eat, come evening. He did know one thing, though.

“This is your home, Eskel,” Geralt said. “You’ll be safe here.”

Eskel rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder, right in the crook of his neck. He breathed deeply. So deeply, with tears welled up in his eyes that would not fall. All he could do was nod. He was overwhelmed at what he was presented with. Geralt showed him everything—told him what the empty spaces would be, showed him the kitchen, Emiel’s room, and then his own room, complete with clean, snow-smelling linens. Not ready to go back to a bed, though, Eskel opted to sit out in the main room in the only chair the house had.

His cloak was quickly converted into a blanket to keep him warm, and he sat to himself while Geralt gave the same little tour to Emiel. Eskel just watched. Content. Nearly happy. He might have even smiled, in another life, to see this. Too much left to the unknowns, but they were home. They would make it work.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none
> 
> raise a glass, everyone, and happy new years! may it be better for us all

Geralt hadn’t brandished a knife for anything outside of his chosen—forced—profession in too long of a time. He used it to skin animals, to cut off their heads, and to prepare himself meals. Never at the same time, though. Geralt had an idea or two about cleanliness, and the knife was always washed between uses, and then sharpened. A dull knife would do him no good. It wouldn’t do him any good here, either so he was sure to sharpen it beforehand.

Eskel was sitting in the chair. They’d been here for just about a month, and Geralt hadn’t been able to get as much done as he would have liked. It was still winter, and while he did what he could in the area, monsters tucked themselves away just the same way that people did when it got cold. Without money and without a miraculous ability to build something more complicated than a shelf or a box, they didn’t have much. This was the only chair, and it was Eskel’s chair. He spent his days in it, and he did little else.

Now, he was sitting in it with a bucket kicked up behind it. Other than having Geralt take him from bed to this chair, they didn’t do much. Not together. They had tried, at least the first night, but Geralt had quickly found a better place on the floor, on the other side of the door, to sleep. Eskel couldn’t handle it, and Geralt wasn’t going to push him. There was still a part of Geralt that felt like this was all his fault, so he would do anything _but_ push Eskel to do things he wasn’t ready for.

Among the list of those things included trying to stand again, too. Eskel could handle the brief contact required to get him from bed to the chair, so that’s what they did. Geralt couldn’t possibly have a clue what he was going through, so Geralt wasn’t going to pretend to know how long it would take to want to do anything. He would just do what he could, and this was something he could do.

“Are you ready?” Geralt asked. He made sure the bucket was right up against the back of the chair.

“Just—” Eskel’s voice was still hoarse, “—be careful.”

Geralt hummed something low in his throat, then curled his fingers around Eskel’s hair. He made sure all of it was hanging over the back of the chair, then he started low. With the knife, Geralt removed a great chunk of it first. He could figure out the details as he got closer to Eskel’s neck, but the chunk he could do easily. All at once, half of the length was gone. In the bucket and not all over the floor. With that out of way, Geralt could take a breath.

“We could get you to a barber in the spring—”

“No,” Eskel replied, quickly. He didn’t say anything more, and Geralt didn’t press. No meant no. Geralt never asked for a reason, and he never tried to convince Eskel to change his answer.

“How short do you want it?”

“As short as you can. Just—”

“Careful, I know.” Geralt hummed again, softer this time. It was about as close to purring as he would get, given the situation, but it was soothing. Eskel visibly relaxed back into the chair, so Geralt got back to work.

He really didn’t know what he was doing; his only experience was having his own hair cut from time to time. He’d kept it shoulder length, for now, though he often pulled it back in some fashion. Either a tail at the base of his neck, or half of one to keep hair out of his eyes. When he had the extra coin for it, he even got a shave from time to time. It was easier to trim his own beard than it was to cut his own hair; for now, he just had stubble growing along his jaw.

Geralt took it just one inch at a time, cutting back Eskel’s hair. The closer he got to Eskel’s neck, the more it turned into just shaving the hair off. Instead of cutting through it, he dragged the knife tip almost parallel to the hair, taking off bits and pieces here and there. He wanted to take it slow, as he was just as unwilling to potentially harm Eskel as he was to even touch his neck. It was taking all of Eskel’s strength to sit still through this, so Geralt couldn’t imagine what an accidental touch would do.

Eventually, he had Eskel’s hair short. Short enough that his bond mark was even visible, though not perfectly cropped. Eskel didn’t want it that short, not just for a personal preference but also for an understanding of the risks involved. With the back dealt with, Geralt focused on the sides. He was even more careful when he worked on the right side of Eskel’s face, where the scars were. It was just another thing they wouldn’t talk about; Eskel may never be ready to talk about it, and Geralt was just going to have to be okay with that.

When Geralt was happy with his work, he stepped back to look at Eskel, folding his arms. Eskel wouldn’t meet his gaze, which was fine. Geralt’s attention was only taken at the sound of a door and following footsteps—it was early morning, still, and neither one of them had been particularly good about keeping Emiel on the same stringent schedule he’d been on at Kaer Morhen. Sometimes he slept late, sometimes he woke up early.

“What’s happening?” Emiel asked. He rubbed his eye with one hand and his stomach with the other. Hungry.

“Haircut,” Geralt responded. “I’d give you one, too, if you wanted it.”

Emiel shook his head. He liked his hair plenty, for as much as a seven-year-old could like his hair. Emiel’s birthday had been entirely uneventful. Emiel didn’t even remember he had one, the day was less than a pleasant memory for Eskel, and Geralt didn’t know exactly what happened at birthdays. They had a good dinner, though. Emiel was turning out to be quite fond of rabbit meat, so Geralt had trapped a few. He took two for dinner and used the third one as drying practice. He was going to make jerky if it killed him.

As for his hair, Emiel had a head full of it. His hair was dark brown and wavy, nearly curly. He looked much like Eskel had when he was young, with a strong, wide jaw and full lips. Geralt’s nose stood out like a sore thumb on his face, but it suited him well. If Emiel wasn’t breaking hearts by fifteen, Geralt would be shocked.

“I’m hungry,” Emiel muttered.

“I’ll get something started soon. Go sit down.” Geralt gestured over to the bench where they _would_ have an eating area, if Geralt had a table. He was working on it, slowly, but there wasn’t a single responsibility here that he could pass of. He was doing it all on his own, and the look on Eskel’s face said that Eskel knew it, too.

When Geralt looked back at him, Eskel’s face was scrunched up in a grimace. He couldn’t help with anything, and some of it was entirely by choice. How hard would it be for him to sit by the oven and cook something? How hard would it be for him to stir a stew or a soup over an open fire? It wouldn’t be, but he wasn’t. He was spending his days in bed eating enough to feed an army because he’d been _starving_ for a decade. And Geralt just seemed fine with it. Geralt never complained, nor did he ever bring it up.

Part of Eskel wanted Geralt to be angry with him. He at least knew how to deal with anger and disappointment—plenty of that from alphas who thought they weren’t getting what they were due from an incapacitated and weak omega. But Geralt was understanding and patient. Part of Eskel wanted to take that for all it was worth, because anything else was overwhelming.

“Don’t have a mirror,” Geralt finally said, “but I think it looks good. Maybe I’ll find one in town.”

“It’s fine,” Eskel muttered. “Feels lighter. That’s all I wanted.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll get on some food, then.”

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out before Eskel could stop them, and he regretted them, instantly. But Geralt didn’t give them any stock, as there wasn’t anything for Eskel to be sorry for.

“Just rest,” Geralt said, like he always said. “I’ll make something.”

There was no argument. Eskel didn’t have the strength to argue, nor did he even know what the argument would be about. Somewhere in him was the thought that it was an _omega_ _’s_ job to take care of the family, but they weren’t living in a picture-book world. They were living in a world where Geralt was doing everything he could to support and provide, and that was enough.

While Geralt worked, Emiel wormed his way back off the bench and padded along the floor. He went straight up to Eskel and bent over the side of Eskel’s lap, flopping over like he was exhausted at the mere idea of being awake. Eskel flinched, because he always did when someone touched him, but the panic died down faster with Emiel than it did with Geralt. Emiel was still comfortingly neutral, young enough that his own scent hadn’t kicked in yet.

Eskel put his hand on Emiel’s back and offered him a soothing pat. “Something wrong?”

“Tired,” Emiel responded. He straightened up, slightly, still leaning on Eskel’s thigh. Emiel stared at him for just long enough that Eskel started to fidget, and then, it was just a nightmare. Emiel tried to _touch_ Eskel. Reached up right for the side of his face where he was disgusting and marred and disfigured. Eskel reacted before he even registered what Emiel was doing—he grabbed Emiel by the wrist.

“Don’t touch me—” Eskel barked, then stopped. Emiel’s face distorted all at once, from what Eskel could now recognize as just a child’s curiosity, straight to hurt and upset and betrayed and any other horrible thing Eskel could ever think of doing to his own son.

And then Emiel was crying, tugging his arm back because Eskel _hurt_ him. Eskel knew he had from the way Emiel was grabbing his own wrist, practically wailing. And why wouldn’t he? He was a _child_ —he was seven, and his own mother had just hurt him, yelled at him. Geralt was there in an instant; whatever he was cooking didn’t require his constant attention, so he was there. He scooped Emiel right off the ground.

“I’m sorry—” Eskel tried, but Emiel wasn’t listening to him. There were several degrees of helplessness, and this was about the worst one. Eskel, _knowing_ he’d done something awful, couldn’t do anything to fix it.

“Hey, hey,” Geralt said, and his voice was deep and rumbling—soothing. Emiel looked right at him. “What happened?”

“Mommy yelled at me,” Emiel muttered; Eskel’s heart seized in his throat.

“Mommy didn’t mean to.” Geralt shifted Emiel up in his arms so Emiel would look at him. “Remember what we talked about? How I said Mommy was hurt?”

Emiel nodded. Geralt looked at Eskel, then, almost as if asking for permission to continue. But Eskel wasn’t looking back. He had his hand over his mouth like he was going to vomit. So, Geralt continued, explaining in the simplest way he could that the hurt didn’t just go away because Eskel was away from it. He didn’t mean to react the way he did. Emiel was trying to touch something that brought back bad memories, and Geralt understood his curiosity, but he had to be careful.

“What about your wrist, then?” Geralt asked. Emiel was still rubbing it, but he let go to show Geralt. Geralt, in return kissed it. “You’re fine,” he said. “Do you want to talk to Mommy now?”

Emiel nodded. Geralt didn’t even have to ask if Eskel was ready. He barely turned Emiel in his arms before Eskel was reaching out to take him. He took Emiel up in his lap and hugged him for a minute, rubbing little circles over his back, before he could muster the strength to say anything.

“I’m sorry, Emmie,” Eskel muttered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Emiel nodded. He sniffed, the tears more than done, then leaned forward. He rested his head on Eskel’s shoulder, right up in the crook of his neck. He picked at Eskel’s shirt, just idly. For something to do. There was a lot for Emiel to think about, and a lot that he didn’t understand. There was so much they wouldn’t tell him because it was too much for him to know.

“Just missed you, Mommy,” Emiel finally said, and he said it quietly. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Oh, Emmie—” Eskel’s voice cracked, and he held Emiel tighter. “You didn’t hurt me. It’s okay.”

Geralt stood by with his arms crossed, a subtle grin on his lips. A month wasn’t nearly enough time to adjust to this, but they would get there, eventually. It would just take time, but as long as little moments like this could happen, there _would_ be an end to it. Emiel would understand better as he got older, which meant he wouldn’t do so much on accident. Eskel would, hopefully, begin to heal as the time passed.

In the meantime, Geralt went back to getting something ready to eat. After Emiel had his fill of the dramatics and the crying, he wriggled his way out of Eskel’s lap. Just like any child, he was easily distracted and had decided to worry himself with something different. Eskel shifted in his chair, leaning on his arm so he could watch.

“I think we should get him some toys,” Eskel muttered. “Could you check in town, maybe?”

Geralt nodded, though Eskel didn’t see him. “Look for toys, books, something to write with? Can’t exactly raise him up illiterate.”

“I could do that,” Eskel said all at once, shifting in his seat to look back at Geralt. “The reading, writing.” Then, Eskel gulped. “Signs, maybe. Are we going to—?” but he trailed off.

Geralt handed Eskel a bowl. Vaguely lukewarm stew, because Emiel wasn’t patient enough to wait for it to heat properly, and really, neither was Eskel. He was always hungry.

“He wants to,” Geralt said. “Asks about it every day.”

Geralt left for only a moment, stepping off to the side to give Emiel his own bowl of stew. Emiel took it greedily, ready to just drink it down instead of using the wooden spoon Geralt gave it with him. With Emiel served, Geralt returned back to the pot to serve himself some, and then, he leaned up against the wall as he ate.

“You do signs, I do sword work,” Geralt rumbled. “You do the reading and writing, I’ll—”

“Everything else,” Eskel filled in, looking quite ashamed of it. The truth.

“Don’t do that. If I wasn’t willing, we wouldn’t be here.”

Eskel nodded. He remembered it just as well as Geralt did—if he could only save one of them, save Emiel. It would have been so easy for Geralt to grab Emiel and leave Kaer Morhen. They would have made the journey faster. Geralt would be able to leave the house for long periods of time, because Emiel could just go with him. Eskel couldn’t go with them, and Eskel could hardly fend for himself. He could beat himself up about it as much as he wanted to, but it didn’t help. He was glad to be out here, really, but found himself wishing for better circumstances.

Snow melted earlier in Ellander than it did in Kaedwen. The days were still relatively short, which meant winter, but the ground outside was nearly clear. It was wet, muddy, covered in left over iced slush, but mostly clear. Geralt had promised the moment they could see grass again, he would give Emiel a sword. Geralt had been out to town enough to use nearly the last of their coin on a wooden one. The next time he went to town, it would be in his armor with his swords strapped to his back for work.

Even just a handful of contracts could get him enough to make something work. He still needed to get furniture. They needed books and writing tools for Emiel. _Toys_ , even, because Emiel wasn’t going to spend his dawn until dusk training against a tree. Coin. Everything was about coin. Geralt tried not to dwell on much of what had happened or what he’d done—hadn’t done. Gweld would be an asset, though, if only Geralt had insisted he come through the fucking gates.

Maybe Gweld was the reason they survived. Maybe he had kept people from following. Maybe he’d died ensuring that Eskel would never live another day as a Witcher school’s fucking _broodmare_ , but Geralt wished he were here. If there were two of them, someone could stay with Eskel while the other was out making coin. With more mouths to feed, they’d need even more of it, but that was a better alternative to the shit Geralt was wading through, now.

Not that he would ever say anything about it. His Witcher training had done one good thing for him, and it meant he could sleep anywhere, even sitting up. That’s what he did most nights, nothing more than a pillow from the bed to rest on. He slept on the floor, mostly, and depending on how he felt. he was either leaning against the wall or lying flat on his back. The previous night, he’d opted to sleep on his back. Morning dawned, the grass was visible, and Geralt groaned as he suddenly had arms full of child—Emiel had launched himself and landed right on Geralt’s chest.

Geralt’s breath was punched right out of him, but he gathered himself quickly as he sat up, patting Emiel’s back.

“You’re up early,” he grunted, straightening up to crack his back.

“You promised!” Emiel yelped, tapping his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. He’d gotten yelled at enough for hitting too hard, and it was nice to see he was _learning_. You hit the monsters, not the monster-hunters. “We have to train, Daddy!”

“We will, we will. Can I get up first?” Geralt tapped Emiel’s side. “Come on, Emmie, up. You’re too heavy for this.”

Emiel stuck out his tongue, but he scrambled off to sit his rump right on the floor. Geralt reached out and ruffled his hair, which had Emiel squealing with laughter. He hurried up to his feet to escape Geralt’s onslaught, and that was Geralt’s cue to pull himself off his ass.

“Food!” Emiel cheered. “Where’s my sword?”

“Will you hold on?” Geralt rumbled. He stretched, and his back cracked again. He shifted from side to side, trying to work out a kink in his shoulder. He was too young for this but sleeping on a hard wood floor didn’t help anyone. “Go see if your mom’s awake.”

Emiel groaned, but he went to the door and just let himself in. Geralt always knocked before he went in, but Emiel came and went as he pleased. There wasn’t a single fiber in Geralt’s body to be jealous about it; it was good that Emiel had free access to his mother. He needed it more than Geralt did.

Eskel was in fact awake, and Geralt only figured that from the fact that Emiel did not come rushing back out to get food. He had, instead, crawled into bed with Eskel. The best times to see Eskel were early mornings and late nights, when he was tired. He didn’t think quite as well when he was tired, so he reacted less to things. He reacted little to Emiel, regardless, and Emiel had stopped trying to touch his scars after the incident with the wrist grabbing. There had been more incidents, but far less severe.

Not enough to scare Emiel away, at least, for which Eskel was glad. Emiel still had no issue crawling right into bed with him. But it didn’t last terribly long. Emiel eventually joined Geralt out in the main room, where Geralt had a meager bit of food for him to eat. Emiel practically ignored it, though, and went straight for latching onto Geralt’s hip.

“Mommy wants to talk to you,” Emiel said. “He said is important.”

Geralt patted his head and handed him down his breakfast. Without a word, he headed straight back for the bedroom. He’d eaten while he was waiting for Emiel, but he didn’t need to eat much, anyway. Mushrooms, mosses, and herbs, perhaps. Geralt closed the door behind him but didn’t approach the bed.

“Emiel said you wanted to talk.”

Eskel was sitting up in bed, covered up to his waist with the blankets. He looked tired, and beside him was a clear disruption in the blankets where Emiel had made himself a nest for the time he’d spent in bed. Eskel was looking nervous— _smelled_ nervous, uneasy. The closed door wasn’t the right thing to do, but Geralt could tell this was a conversation that Emiel didn’t need to hear.

“My heat,” Eskel muttered, then shook his head.

“What about it?” Geralt tried to remain calm, but he was _thinking_ about it. Eskel’s heat. He no doubt smelled of his own want with how Eskel was suddenly looking at him, guilt written all over his face.

“I can’t.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “You—you have to leave. _Please_. Take Emiel with you.”

Geralt breathed, shuddering. He understood. It was probably _best_. Eskel had been in a near constant heat-pregnant cycle for a lifetime. Why would he want to share his heat with anyone ever again, mate or not? It didn’t matter what Geralt wanted. It mattered what Eskel wanted and only what Eskel wanted. And if that meant that he never shared another heat again, then Geralt just had to accept that. He wouldn’t be one of the alphas who forced him.

“Good excuse to earn some coin,” Geralt muttered, though Eskel no doubt knew what he meant to say. It was hard not to be disappointed, no matter how well Geralt understood the logistics.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel said.

“Do you need anything?” Geralt ignored his apology pointedly, unsure what to think of it. Really, he tried to swallow his own desires, too, right back down to the pit of his gut where they belonged. They were base. He wasn’t an animal; he didn’t _need_ to stick his cock in something to live a fine life. No matter how much he wanted to. Now that he knew what he was smelling, he could smell the undertones of it all. That sweet smell that was undeniably Eskel—his mate—about to go into a _real_ heat.

“I—” Eskel breathed, then shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”

“Leave food in here for you, where you can reach it,” Geralt said. “Not like we have much to pack, so we’ll be gone within the day.”

“Geralt, I’m sorry.”

Geralt just shook his head. “You’ve been through enough,” he said. What went unsaid was that Geralt didn’t need to be the next one to add to his trauma. He would leave. If he were lucky, he could find a trustworthy person somewhere in town to look after Emiel while he sought out any monster contracts. Anything to get coin, at least. If he could come back at the end of the week with a table and some things for Emiel, that would be a job well done.

They didn’t have to be out of there immediately, but they couldn’t stay the night. Eskel clearly didn’t know when his own heat would start, only that it was close. He certainly didn’t want Geralt close enough to be able to pick up on it, either, and figure out when exactly it would hit. Emiel was on the one who took food into the room. The jerky experiment had worked out wonderfully; that, along with bread, cheese, and water were stashed away at the side of the bed where Eskel could get them.

Geralt thought, then, that he needed several tables. A nightstand. Perhaps a dresser or an armoire if they were to ever actually get enough clothes to warrant one. He might even resort to slaying wolves in the forest if it would get him enough pelts to sell at market so he could afford _something_. It was a lot on his mind, and he thought about all of it at once as he packed little provisions and supplies to strap to Roach. In the time they’d been here, Geralt had managed to get her a saddle, at least. Some old man felt bad enough for him and his pathetic satchel to give him an old worn saddle bag. Progress.

Once they stepped out of the house, they would not step back into it for the length of the week. Geralt ensured the door was locked, then hung the key around his neck and tucked it into his jerkin. Emiel was already flitting about in the grass, kicking through clumps of it where flowers were trying to grow.

“Where are we going?” Emiel asked.

“Nowhere, yet. We’ve got training to do, remember?”

That stopped Emiel in his tracks. He looked up at Geralt with his wide, blue eyes and smiled. Then, after a split second of joy, he frowned. “What about Mommy?”

“Mommy’s sick.” The words rolled right off Geralt’s tongue. “He needs his rest, and it’s easier to rest without you causing a fuss.”

Emiel folded his arms.

Geralt gave an oddly fond smirk. “Besides, means we can head into town. You’ve been asking for that, too. Your mom will be better when we get back.”

That was enough soothing. Emiel bought it and relaxed. Geralt approached and handed him the wooden sword. It wasn’t exactly the sort of quality they would have had to practice with in Kaer Morhen, but it would do until Geralt could get his hands on a better one. Emiel just had to prove that he wouldn’t break it. Already, he knew how to hold it. Trees wouldn’t be the best opponent, though. He’d need to fight the air first, as that would ensure he couldn’t break his sword.

Geralt hadn’t seen Emiel with a sword and a real purpose, before. He didn’t know what it might mean. From what he’d heard the others talking about, back in Kaer Morhen, Emiel was supposed to be something special. The combination of genes that had both undergone the mutations of the Grasses couldn’t be anything _but_ special. Emiel had grown faster, he’d grown stronger. Geralt might even wager to say he was smarter, too. It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d come out with blue eyes and not gold.

“Alright,” Geralt rumbled, stepping off to the side so he could observe Emiel. “We’ll start with stances. I want to see how you hold the sword, how you move.”

“That’s no fun,” Emiel groaned.

“Training isn’t fun, Emmie.”

“But _Daddy_ —”

Geralt smirked. “Just because I’m your father doesn’t mean I’ll go soft on you. I’ll have to tell you about Vesemir, sometime.”

“Vesemir?” Emiel perked up.

“It’ll make for a good travel story. For now—stances, as I said. We’ll start with the basics. You know why that’s important, don’t you?”

Emiel did as he was told, finally, and took up a strong-footed stance. “Make sure I don’t fall over,” he muttered.

Geralt chuckled. “Bit more involved than that, but I’ll take it.”

Remembering the drills they’d run through in the past was much like sifting through recent and fond memories. Geralt remembered everything in detail, right down to the filth Varin used to shout at them when they didn’t do it right. That part could be spared, but the drills remained the same. Geralt could run them through in his sleep, if he had to. It was much like the books: memorized until it was second, third, and fourth nature. Until it was the only thing they knew how to do.

Emiel caught on quickly, too. The few months on his ass hadn’t dulled his senses in the slightest, nor had it set him behind in any way. He was as skilled with the sword now as he had been the last time Geralt saw him swing it around in Kaer Morhen. It was about on par with how skilled any seven-year-old could be with the amount of training he’d undergone, except—there was more to it. Emiel reacted quicker; it was almost uncanny, when Geralt realized it.

He would bark out an order, and often, before he’d even finished describing the maneuver or the stance or the flurry he intended Emiel to perform, Emiel was doing it. His skills weren’t so overly defined by the nature of his birth that he stuck out in any sort of way in strength or in size—not yet, at least, being still young—but he was certainly already making something of himself in instinct. Instinct was perhaps a Witcher’s greatest weapon. The ability to hear and sense the world around them kept them alive, and it ensured they would nary find a blade in the back. If they did, it had been expected and wanted.

Each drill was run and run again, and Emiel only complained under his breath. Geralt could hear every bit of it, but he never mentioned it. As long as Emiel was still performing to this caliber, he could complain all he wanted. They’d all complained in their youth: Geralt, Gweld, and Garis. Even Eskel had a few choice words every now and again for the effort they were forced through. They had always tried to get out of it, but Emiel was diligent. Like he really wanted to do this.

“You’re doing great,” Geralt told him. In his youth, he’d longed for that sort of thing: being told when he did well. Emiel responded to it almost immediately.

“Really?” He gawked back, like he hadn’t expected it. “Are you sure? That’s not being soft?”

Geralt chuckled. “You’ve got too much of a mouth on you for your own good,” he replied. “You’re doing well. Do you want to continue?”

Emiel smiled. He looked just like Eskel had, when he was young, with that smile. It made a part of Geralt ache for the easier days, but they were long gone. The easiest part of his days now may very well be training Emiel, himself. Emiel would need to face the trials if he were ever to be a true Witcher, but he wouldn’t be old enough for years. By the time he was, it may have not been entirely outside of possibilities to return to Kaer Morhen for such a task. Until that day came, Geralt wouldn’t look past what he, himself, could guide Emiel through.

“Start drilling you on monster information soon,” Geralt said. Emiel had finished his final instruction with near perfection, though as Geralt approached, he pressed against Emiel’s back to straighten him up. “Like that,” he added. “Could hurt yourself if you get sloppy.”

Emiel nodded, biting down on his lip in concentration. “You’ll teach me about monsters, too?”

“Of course. Memorized the books. Best way to remember it all. There’s monsters and alchemy. Eskel wants to be the one to teach you the signs.”

“The signs!” Emiel cheered, immediately breaking out of his sword stance. He held out his hand and drew one swift triangle out in the air. Nothing happened, but he knew the shape.

Geralt hummed in question.

“Aard!” Emiel shouted, then he laughed. Nothing would be enough to tire him out. Not for the next hundred years, if he got those trials. Geralt had no doubt that he would pass the Grasses, because any doubt was just too much to think about. So, he had none. Emiel would survive them because he wanted Emiel to.

“Very good. Would you like to continue, or should we be on our way?”

“Is Mommy going to be okay?” Emiel asked, suddenly looking very worried. He gripped his toy sword by the hilt, pressed up to his chest. “All alone? He—he can’t walk.” Emiel sniffed. There were just some things he didn’t need to know. Not yet.

“He’ll be okay,” Geralt assured. He didn’t know how true that was, in truth, but he’d cast Yrden around the house enough times to tire himself out. The traps would hold so long as they weren’t disrupted or dispelled. If someone did manage to come close enough to smell Eskel and was stupid enough to try something, they wouldn’t make it to the house. “He’ll be back on his feet in no time, too.”

Emiel looked doubtful. He’d seen what Eskel looked like. With how much Eskel had been eating, he was putting on weight, but when they’d first got to the cottage, he’d been nothing more than skin and bones. Emiel looked at that and hadn’t a clue how it meant that Eskel would be able to walk _ever_ , because he was a smart boy. He’d seen other people walking, and most of them had legs big enough to carry them. Eskel didn’t.

“Let’s get going,” Geralt said. “We can camp along the way and make it to town by sunrise.”

Emiel was more than happy to oblige, as that meant it was time for a small lesson in horseback riding. Roach was too big for him to ride on his own, but as Geralt couldn’t exactly afford any smaller, younger horses at the moment, he made do. Emiel couldn’t mount her by himself, and he did have a great deal of trouble staying situated without Geralt to hold him, but he was getting the hang of the basics. Smart boy. Just needed longer legs and a bit of age.

Town was always bustling; it was nothing new, at least, not to Geralt. Emiel saw it, though—Ellander, the largest city he’d ever been in—and gawked like any child who grew up in the middle of nowhere would. He was shocked to see so many people in the same place. He marveled as they walked through town. Geralt led Roach behind them, happily content to just listen to Emiel. He pointed out everything that was even remotely different, remotely new. He asked questions, too, and Geralt answered them the best that he could.

Their first stop was where Geralt always stopped in towns—a notice board. It’d been long enough since he was in Ellander that he was sure something new would have popped up, and he was not disappointed. There were plenty of little bits of things he might find worthy time in checking out, but more importantly, there was something directly up his alley. Some local crying monster. The more he read the notice, the more dangerous it was beginning to sound. Which had Geralt glancing down at Emiel.

“Something interesting?” He asked. Emiel was staring off into the distance with wide, glassy eyes. Something he tended to only do when he found a bug he was debating on whether or not to eat.

Emiel didn’t answer, so Geralt turned at the waist to follow Emiel’s distant gaze. Out in the middle of the square, there were children playing. Children who were around Emiel’s age and making quite the fun for themselves. Geralt swallowed, a sudden pang of guilt. Emiel didn’t have any toys because Geralt couldn’t get him any. There he was, staring at children who not only knew how to play, but had things to play with.

“Do you want to go play?” Geralt asked.

Emiel looked up at him. “But—I don’t—” he breathed.

“It’s okay, Emmie. Nervous?”

Emiel nodded, wringing his little hands together. “What if they don’t like me? What if I say something weird?”

“Just don’t talk about being a Witcher,” Geralt grumbled. “They’ll like you just fine. Go on, if you like. I have more things to look at.”

Emiel didn’t need to be told twice. He dashed off to the square; Geralt snorted something fond, then turned back to the notices. He could hear the children laughing, and Emiel’s voice was there not a few moments after he’d run off. Geralt could never _really_ let Emiel out of his sight, not with his hearing as tuned as it was. He was glad. Emiel was laughing, shrieking with the rest of them. Geralt certainly didn’t want to tear him away, but there was the slight problem of he couldn’t just leave his only son in a strange place with strange people.

Geralt tucked the monster problem into his jerkin then turned back towards the square. He had Roach’s rope reins in his hand, and Emiel knew exactly what that meant when he met Geralt’s eyes. He was playing with a little girl who was nearly an entire head shorter than him. She had rosy cheeks, green eyes, and a shock of black hair on her head. She looked at Emiel, her big round eyes, then looked at Geralt. She perked up immediately, then grabbed Emiel by the arm and dragged him.

“You’re Dad!” She shouted, pointing right at Geralt. Smart little thing, too. Geralt snorted.

“I am.”

“ _And_ ,” she huffed, “you’re leaving. Emiel doesn’t want to leave.”

Geralt looked at Emiel, who was flushed in the face and looking at his shoes. That time, Geralt smiled. “Didn’t think he’d make a friend so fast. What’s your name?” Geralt squatted to her level.

“Tara!” She said. “My name’s Tara. Me dad’s a smith and me mom takes care of the cows. What do _you_ do?”

“I fight monsters.”

That didn’t deter Tara one bit. She gripped onto Emiel’s arm harder. “He can stay,” she said. “Ma will take nice care of him until you get back from your _monster_.”

Geralt snorted. Oh, she was too much. He reached out and ruffled her hair, nearly unable to contain his laughter. Not a moment later, a rather gaunt looking women approached, smelling right like absolutely nothing, and snatched Tara right from the ground.

“Oh, I am _so_ sorry,” she pleaded. “She’s—she’s always doing this. I can’t get her to stop—”

Geralt laughed. “It’s fine,” he assured. “Name’s Geralt.” He offered a hand, and though the woman hesitated to shake it, she did.

“You’re a Witcher,” she said, then signed. “I can’t believe you’ve been harassing a _Witcher_ —” she had turned to Tara to chastise her, but Geralt just shook his head.

“Actually,” he said, “she was being quite helpful. There’s some work I need to do in town,” Geralt explained, “that’s not exactly safe for children companions.” Then, he gestured down to Emiel. The woman understood, all at once.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m the one who’s making a fuss now, aren’t I?” She rubbed the back of her neck, shifting side to side. “I’ve heard about the monster problem, anyway,” she said. “Just last week, a merchant disappeared in the night. Didn’t know him well, but he certainly didn’t seem the type to just disappear. A bit suspicious, mind, but never quite like that. Thinking more in the way of selling stolen goods, not disappearing.”

Geralt hummed. “Think he was involved in something illegal?”

“I don’t know about _illegal_ , but dangerous, certainly. Pretty sure I’ve seen him talking to another Witcher, too, though I haven’t seen that one around in a while. Merchant—he was an alpha, you know, which makes the whole disappearing act twice as strange. Don’t see alphas go missing.”

“Another Witcher?”

“Oh, he’s of no concern. Been awhile since he’s been around. Doubt he had anything to do with it.”

Geralt nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “For the information.”

“I do certainly think you could thank me for more. Be glad to watch, um—” she looked down to Emiel. “I didn’t get your name, sweetheart.”

“Emiel,” he said. Tara shouted it in an echo, and the woman laughed.

“Be happy to watch Emiel for you,” she said. “Tara’s been needing someone who can keep up with her, anyway. Don’t know what to do with her.”

“I’d appreciate it. I can pay—”

The woman shook her head. “Nonsense. Won’t be having it. Keeping this she-devil out of my hair is payment enough, believe you me. I’m Victoria, by the way.”

“Can I stay?” Emiel asked. “I’ll be good, Daddy, I promise.”

Geralt nodded. “Of course, you can. This works out great. Don’t want to risk him getting hurt, you know.”

Victoria nodded. “I completely understand. Do you live in town, or are you just passing through?”

“We live a day out,” he said. “Riding in to get some coin, some supplies, I hope.”

Victoria wished him what luck she could offer, then ushered Emiel after her. Emiel and Tara went right back to playing with the other children, but Victoria didn’t go very far. She stayed around to watch, suddenly feeling a bit more obligation than before now that she was watching another person’s child.

Geralt headed off with Roach, after that. He had a moment of wonderment, that maybe he’d trusted Victoria too quickly, but the feeling drifted away. He had no reason not to trust he, and Emiel was a smart enough boy to know not to stick around when trouble started. He would be fine, and he would be able to find Geralt if he needed him. In the meantime, he had to speak with the poster of the contract. He had plenty of proof on him that he had a child, and maybe that would just be the sort of leverage he needed to milk this contract for all it was worth.

While he had the time, too, he would take advantage of it. Geralt would do as much as he could in a short amount of time. He could deal with this contract, then—provided Victoria didn’t mind long term guests—just leave Emiel with her for the week while he took care of whatever petty problems the people of Ellander had for a Witcher to deal with. Witchers weren’t supposed to get involved, but Geralt had learned rather quickly that getting involved just got him more _coin_.

As it turned out, Ellander had a werewolf problem. Not only did they have a werewolf problem, but the merchant _was_ the werewolf problem. Which was why he had such a grand habit of disappearing. This time, he’d disappeared because he’d gotten himself into more trouble than it was worth. Three people dead, the merchant included. The fact that he’d been dealing in less than savory goods had nothing to do with it, though Geralt had found it interesting enough.

Potions that stopped heats, blocked scents—they were hard enough to come by in the real world. They also weren’t exactly the sort of thing people were supposed to know about. Nobody wanted an omega to not have their heats, because that meant they weren’t having babies, and that’s all omegas were good for. Sold off like cattle, the lot of them were. This merchant was doing them a favor, selling them the things they needed to protect themselves. Maybe Geralt even felt a bit bad that he hadn’t survived, but there hadn’t been time to find a way to lift the curse.

The merchant, having lost his mind to the transformation, had attacked. Geralt responded. He certainly did feel bad, but he felt _less_ bad when he was offered nearly four-hundred crowns for the deed that he’d done. Not only that, but the man who’d issued the notice in the first place was a carpenter. One who was so very grateful that Geralt had rid Ellander of a very dangerous problem that he’d been willing to offer services along with those crowns. And that was how Geralt finally got his hands on a table.

Victoria was more than happy to take care of Emiel, too. Geralt hadn’t exactly made it back to town before nightfall, but after he’d returned in the morning and gotten his reward, he’d found Victoria again in the square where Tara and Emiel were playing with the other children. As if nothing had changed.

“I took him home last night, fed him well,” Victoria said. “How long will you be in town for?”

“The week,” Geralt said. She looked him at him a bit strangely, but he didn’t elaborate.

“I can watch him for the week. Watch him next time you’re in town, too. Tara’s enjoying the company.” Victoria folded her arms, then. “That boy of yours—he’s real smart. What do you feed him?”

“Um. Rabbits,” Geralt said. “He likes to eat rabbit.”

Victoria laughed, shrill and overjoyed with Geralt’s overly serious answer. “Rabbit! Oh, if only that’s what it took to make a smart boy. Half the town’d be better off, you know. Oh, I just love it. He’s a delight, Geralt.”

Geralt smiled. It hadn’t taken him long to find that Victoria was actually _older_ than he was, but he didn’t look a day under a century with the white of his hair. She couldn’t tell that he’d only just turned twenty-four. If she’d known that, she might have acted more a mother than she was acting a friend, and Geralt appreciated the companionship. He hadn’t had someone to banter with since he’d left Kaer Morhen. Maybe one day, he’d even tell her about Eskel.

The week did come to an end, eventually. Geralt had amassed coin enough that he spent the last evening in Ellander purchasing things to take home. Victoria had helped him in the toy department, and though a pulley-horse wasn’t exactly the cheapest option, Emiel would enjoy it. Until Geralt could get him a real horse, anyway. He made purchase of parchment, ink and a quill, an extra bag to take everything home with, and a book. Geralt had seen the book, and he hadn’t really been able to help himself but buy it.

He bought a few, after the first, but it had been that first book to catch his attention. The very type of story that Eskel would love, and maybe if he had something to _do_ all day, he might be happier. He’d always loved reading, loved stories and tales of romance. Geralt was sure, too, that he’d even had an eye for poetry. These were the sorts of softer things they didn’t get in Kaer Morhen, but they weren’t in Kaer Morhen, anymore. Eskel could pursue whatever sort of idle time he wanted.

The table would prove the hardest thing to get home, but Geralt was nothing if not resourceful. He didn’t need a wagon when it was just as easy to build himself a makeshift sled, just to get the thing home. It would drag on the ground behind them, and within the day, there’d be a table in the house. Geralt was nothing if not proud of himself.

Farewells of course were tearful. Emiel and Tara squeezed each other—hard. Their friendship was unbreakable in the span of a week. Geralt didn’t have the heart to tear them away, but neither did Victoria. They both stood awkwardly near each other while Emiel and Tara squeezed and hugged and cried. Children.

“We will be returning,” Geralt assured. “It may not be for a while, but this isn’t the end.”

“It’s not fair!” Tara shouted. She rubbed furiously at her face, and Emiel grabbed her little hands with his own. Geralt couldn’t help but smile.

Emiel _also_ assured her that he would be back. He wouldn’t not let Geralt bring him back to town, because he had real friends with whom he could enjoy himself. It was a new experience for him, and it was one that he wasn’t willing to let go. It was only Emiel’s assurance that calmed Tara down, and they hugged again. Only then did he say goodbye. Geralt got him up onto Roach, and they were off. Emiel didn’t stop waving until they had left the limits of the city.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: blood, nightmares, effects of trauma, minor injury

The table was sitting nicely in the little dining area, and it had been serving them well since Geralt arrived back. He still hadn’t gifted Emiel his new toy, waiting for just the right moment. Emiel had been spending his days out in the yard with Geralt, training with his sword. He spent the evenings curled up in bed with Eskel, working on the finer things in life. Reading and writing. Geralt had been back to Ellander only once in the past two weeks, and he had returned with some extra coin in a bedroll.

A bedroll on the floor in front of the kitchen stove wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, especially not when Geralt _wanted_ to be in bed with his mate, but it was better than just sleeping on the floor. He wasn’t asleep for long. A sudden, horrible stench hit him and roused him right from his sleep in a jolt. A panic. He could _smell_ panic. He smelled blood. The smell of blood was something like an old friend; Geralt knew it well. He wouldn’t mistake this for the blood of a dying beast or a monster. This was something much more terrifyingly close.

Geralt scrambled up to his feet at the sound of Eskel’s cry. He knew the scent. Eskel’s blood. Eskel’s panic. Eskel’s _horror_. And then that shout. Like terror. Every awful possibility stormed through Geralt’s mind, no matter how unlikely. He would have known if someone had been close by. He would have smelled or sensed any animal, any person, who came near the house. If they ever made it past the traps that Geralt had, they would never make it past him. But _still_ —the thought that someone had been able to sneak into Eskel’s room to hurt him.

There was no time for knocking. Geralt burst his way through the door, panicked up to his throat—and that was it. Geralt stilled in the doorway.

“Eskel? Eskel—are you alright?” Geralt stepped forward, but he went slowly.

Eskel was alone, sitting up in bed with his head in his hands and the blankets thrown back. He was just breathing, through his nose, like he was trying to calm himself down. There was still the scent of blood in the air, but as Geralt sniffed it, it was. Different. Like there was something more to it than just blood. Beside the fact that Eskel didn’t appear to be hurt. Just shaken. He hadn’t responded to Geralt at all, nor had he even looked up from his hands.

“Eskel, can I come forward? Please, I need you to answer.”

Eskel took a shuddering breath and nodded. “I don’t—know what’s happening,” he said, voice cracking.

Geralt hurried to the side of the bed against his better judgment. He should have gone slow, but he couldn’t help himself. Even though Eskel didn’t appear to be hurt, he sounded terrified, and the stench of blood was still wafting through the room. Something was _wrong_ , even if it didn’t manifest itself in some awful vision of an intruder with a knife or an overzealous need for control. It was hard enough to think of Eskel as fragile, harder to see it right out in front of him.

When Geralt approached the side of the bed, he understood immediately. He didn’t know what was happening any better than Eskel did, but there was a fresh bloodstain in the bed linens. The bloodstains didn’t stop there, either. Geralt knew exactly why this had sent Eskel into a panic—there were bloodstains on his trousers, too, right in the crotch.

“Eskel—” Geralt said, but what more did he say?

“I feel _fine_ ,” Eskel said. “I’m not—I’m not dying, am I?”

Geralt shook his head. “I think we’d know if you were dying. Can I sit down?” Eskel nodded, so Geralt sat down on the edge of the bed. He made sure they weren’t touching. “I can ask someone in town—”

“Please don’t,” Eskel hurried out. “The less people know I’m here, the better. You said it yourself. When you leave, I’m fucking _defenseless_ —” and he hated it. He knew how weak he was right now, and he hated it more than any of them. He hated how fragile he’d become, how absolutely helpless. He didn’t know what to do about it, either, and that just left him feeling weaker. More helpless.

“But if something is wrong, then we need to do something about it.” Geralt argued. Eskel just shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he spat, because he was so fucking desperate to be fine, he was just going to will himself there through sheer force. It didn’t work that way. He _knew_ it didn’t work that way, but it was such a better option than confronting everything.

“I’ll get everything washed,” Geralt said. “Don’t know if I can get the stains out, but I can ask someone about stains, right?”

“Do you—” Eskel swallowed, “ _know_ somebody?” He hated how desperate he sounded with that question. It overwhelmed him, all at once, that Geralt was going into town by himself. Not frequently, but frequently enough. What if he knew someone? Another omega, maybe. One who wasn’t terrified of the idea of taking him to bed and tussling in the sheets. Geralt clearly wanted, and Eskel couldn’t give it to him.

“Emiel met this girl in town. I may not have mentioned it; lots on the mind, after all. Name’s Tara. Been talking to her mother.”

Eskel let out a hard breath. Geralt wasn’t the type to go storming into happy homes. Someone’s mother didn’t exactly seem like a woman open to be wooed for a quick fuck. Of course, that didn’t have to mean that Geralt wasn’t tossing coins in a brothel, but Eskel didn’t know. And he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to think about it, because thinking about it led him to think about everything he’d rather forget.

“Do you want me to change the linens now?” Geralt asked. The silence was deafening and terrifying all at once.

Eskel shook his head. “I’ll just—sleep on the other side.”

Geralt looked at him for a long time. Eskel was talking through his hands, breathing hard. Geralt wanted to hold him against his chest, wanted to stroke their bond mark until Eskel was calm and happy again. But Eskel didn’t smile. Eskel hardly looked at him. Geralt couldn’t get close enough to comfort him, because Eskel didn’t _want_ him close enough for that. The only touch he endured was to be taken from the bed to his chair, and even then, Eskel didn’t do that every day. He did it rarely.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Eskel muttered. He wrapped his arms around himself, then. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Geralt swallowed. What was he supposed to say to that? Assuring Eskel he had nothing to apologize for hadn’t worked. He wouldn’t dare _command_ Eskel to stop apologizing. Geralt was stuck between a rock and a hard place without a thing to do, no way out. He just sighed.

“I’m taking Emiel into town tomorrow,” he said. “Find out what can be done about stains and see if there’s any work to do.”

Eskel nodded and heard something entirely different. _I_ _’m going into town to find what you can’t give me_ , Geralt said, in his mind. And Eskel ached, but he couldn’t muster the words to argue.

Victoria thought it was rather hilarious that, as a monster hunter, Geralt didn’t know how to get rid of blood stains. On the surface, it did seem rather stupid that he’d never bothered to learn, but they didn’t exactly teach laundry techniques at Kaer Morhen. He neglected to mention that and let Victoria laugh at him, instead. She had such a shrill, happy laugh that he was more than okay to let it echo out. Victoria was beautiful, in the way that gaunt women were. She had fine features, even if she needed some meat on her bones.

He had learned that Victoria and her husband were a lovely beta couple, which is why she smelled so much like nothing. She had a strong suspicion that Tara wouldn’t _dare_ be something as boring as a beta, not with her attitude. Victoria’s parents had both been betas, but her grandfather had been the most impressive alpha Ellander had ever seen. She was dead now, of course, but Tara remembered her fondly. Her husband, on the other hand, had an alpha and an omega parent.

“Tara is either going to be the snappiest omega the world has ever seen, or she’s going to crush Ellander under the attitude of one. I’m sure of it.” Victoria laughed.

Geralt smiled. Tara looked a lot like Victoria, though the hair had come from her father. Victoria had brown hair, light in the sun and dark in the rain. Her eyes were green and sparkling, and she knew a great deal about the life that Geralt never thought he’d be living. Something far more domestic than killing monsters and returning to Kaer Morhen for white gull, which is what he’d seen himself doing for the next century, until, well—everything.

“Being a beta wouldn’t be so bad, either,” Geralt told her. He was thinking about Gweld and Gardis. Two of his best friends. Were they alive?

“Maybe not, but I’ve never seen one with such an attitude.”

Geralt snorted. “I have. Worst attitude I’ve ever seen. Snappier than anyone.”

Victoria smiled. “You sound fond. Did you have an eye?”

“Oh, no.” Geralt shook his head, then shrugged. “Not really sure. Never _explored_ that part of the friendship, I guess. Besides, I uh—” well, he’d gone and said it. Might as well finish. “Bonded young.”

Victoria pressed her hand into her chest. “My, how sweet is that? Tell me?”

Eskel had specifically asked that nobody know he was around, because that would keep him safe. And Geralt agreed. If nobody _knew_ there was an omega a day away from town who didn’t have the strength to walk, let alone fend off an attack, it was inviting trouble. So, Geralt did the next best thing.

“We don’t get together very often. I try to see him when I can.”

“Imagine the Witchering lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to good morning kisses and nighttime snogging, does it?” Victoria laughed. “Nice to know it wasn’t a mistake, though. Hear that too often.”

Geralt agreed.

She showed him what worked against blood stains and proved it by scrubbing at his armor. It worked a charm, and Geralt was never going to forget it. When he got home, he’d have to take the linens to the stream and hope it worked on week old stains as well as it did on month old stains. Wouldn’t make much sense if it didn’t.

Victoria kept an eye on Emiel for as long as she needed to for Geralt to take another contract. They were in Ellander for a week, and at the end of the week—just like before—Emiel and Tara had a tearful goodbye in the square. Geralt went home with another piece of furniture for the house and more parchment so Emiel could keep working on his penmanship.

For a time, things were fine. Spring came and went as normally as any season did. When Eskel’s spring heat came, Geralt took Emiel back into town for the week. He was doing good making coin; the house was nearly furnished, and Emiel’s training was going well. Everything was going fine enough. Well enough. There were hiccups here and there, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. Summer came quickly with just how _well_ the spring had been, and it came too quickly.

Geralt was used to sleeping little. It was hard to sleep out on the hunt; sleeping on his bedroll on the floor was the best condition he could hope for, but he still didn’t sleep peacefully or soundly. Some nights, he meditated instead. He was always alert, always on high. If it weren’t the fear of what he would face outside, it was the fear of what he would face inside. There were nights that were filled with the stench of fear and panic, coming from Eskel’s room. Nothing had been so bad as the first night Eskel had bled, but the smells were there.

After his spring heat, Eskel had bled again some two weeks later. He still didn’t want to know what it was; as long as he wasn’t dying, he was _fine_. Geralt just cleaned and changed the sheets as he needed to. It didn’t scare him so much the second time, and Geralt was sure that, if it came a third time, it would just be tediously annoying at that point. He could see how frustrated Eskel was with himself. Geralt tried not to be frustrated, as well, but it was hard not to.

He laid awake at night smelling these fears of Eskel’s. So deep seated that his scent had all but returned to the stench it had been in Kaer Morhen. Geralt thought they would have moved passed that, but how could they? Eskel had left the place, but the situation was much the same. He was confined to a bed all day, relying on someone to bring him food. His life was in someone else’s hands. He used a bedpan. He couldn’t change his own clothes. Eskel was helpless, and he hated it.

Geralt wanted him to do something about it but didn’t know how to push without becoming another alpha that Eskel would hate. He couldn’t bear for Eskel to hate him, so he wouldn’t do anything. He was just waiting for Eskel to do things on his own, and Eskel wasn’t doing _anything_.

Nights like these were the worst. Geralt couldn’t fathom what Eskel was dreaming about, but it couldn’t have been pleasant. Not with the way the house smelled. Geralt was almost glad that Emiel was still too young to present, and therefore, couldn’t smell this the way that Geralt could. It was putrid enough that Geralt wanted to be sick. Sick from the smell and sick from the fact of his life that he couldn’t do a damn thing to help his mate.

But then he heard Eskel shout. A sudden panicked shriek that ended in agonized panting. Nothing would have been strong enough to keep Geralt to his bedroll after hearing that. It was like the first night Eskel bled all over again, but that scream had been _real_ fear, not just shock at the sight of blood. Geralt scrambled up to his feet. Right back to the room.

“Eskel!” He shouted.

Eskel didn’t even look at him. Didn’t respond. He had his fingers in his hair, squeezing at his skull like it might make the visions in the back of his eyelids go away. Geralt didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to react. He let his instincts take over, and that took him right to Eskel’s side. But when he grabbed for Eskel, the only intention being to soothe Eskel in his arms, Eskel struck him. Right across the face. With nails right into the side of the cheek. And if that hadn’t been enough, he pushed Geralt back.

Geralt fell backwards into the chest of drawers, barely managing to catch himself. He smelled blood, instantly, and recognized a moment later that it was the smell of his own blood. Eskel had clawed his cheek right open, and it was there that Geralt idly touched his fingertips.

“Get away from me,” Eskel said, quietly. Shuddering. His voice trembled in his throat and was hard to understand.

“Talk to me,” Geralt replied, just as quietly. He spoke slowly.

“I said get _away_!” Eskel shouted, and this time, he threw something. It was just a pillow, but he threw it squarely at Geralt’s head. At his face. His aim was perfect, as it’d always been, and if it’d been something _hard_ —Eskel realized too late what he’d done and wrapped his arms around himself, digging his nails into his bicep. Geralt backed away, all the way to the end of the room where his back hit the wall right by the door. He didn’t leave. Eskel hadn’t asked him to leave, just to get away.

“You should have left me there,” Eskel whispered. Geralt’s heart caught in his throat. “I’m a burden. You would be—Emiel would be better off without me. I hold you both back. Keep you from taking care of him because you’re so fucking busy taking care of _me_ —” Eskel’s breath got sharper, harder. “And I can’t even do anything for you. I can’t cook for you; I can’t take care of our _son_. You don’t sleep in our bed, you can’t even—” Eskel’s voice cracked and the tears started. “We’re _mates_ , and you can’t even fuck me.”

Geralt gripped his hands into the wall and just. Breathed. “You don’t get to make that decision,” he bit out. “ _You_ don’t get to decide that a child is better off without his mother. How could you even think that I would have entertained the idea of leaving you there? How could I do that to you? I—” Geralt stopped short, and Eskel looked at him.

“Say it,” Eskel snapped.

“I put you there in the first place,” Geralt grumbled.

“Fuck you,” Eskel spat. “You don’t know the fucking half of it, Geralt! You don’t know what I went through, and whatever fucking _rumors_ you heard because no fucking alpha can keep his cock in his pants—I promise you, not even half of what they did to me.” Geralt winced. “I wanted _years_ to get back to you, and now you’re going to tell me that you’re the reason I suffered? Fuck _you_ , Geralt! You’re not some goddamn martyr!”

Geralt beat his fist into the wall. “I’m not!” He roared back. “Being a martyr isn’t why I take care of you!”

“Is it guilt? Is that it?” Eskel shouted back. “You bit the first poor, stupid, fucking desperate omega who bares their neck for you, and you feel _bad_ , so you—”

“Fuck! No!” Geralt yelled. He yelled so loudly that a growl had formed in the back of his throat, half raw with anger and half cracked with distress. It stilled Eskel, not with terror, but with ache.

“I don’t know what you went through,” Geralt continued. “You won’t fucking talk to me. And you don’t have to. I’m doing everything in my fucking power to make sure you’re comfortable, and if it doesn’t work, then I’m sorry! But nowhere, ever, would I ever find a fucking excuse to get rid of you. It’s not _guilt_ keeping me here, it’s not our fucking son—I _love_ you, Eskel! Did you forget that?” Geralt’s yell slowly, slowly volumed down, and Eskel even swore he heard a whimper in the back of Geralt’s throat.

Geralt slumped against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, wincing as he tried to calm himself down. “Fuck,” he said. “I love you, Eskel. I bit you because I loved you, not because I felt fucking bad for you. We were kids. We were both stupid fucking kids who didn’t have a clue what sort of consequences we would face, and here we are, still trying to deal with them. But never, not fucking _once,_ have I done something for you out of guilt.”

There was silence. A resounding, painful silence that followed. It carried on for a lifetime, thick as it was with pain and anger and distress. Neither could they speak nor look at each other, in that silence. It weighed between them like a heavy, sprawling ocean that neither one of them knew how to swim through.

“I will do anything for you,” Geralt muttered. “You just have to ask.”

Eskel shook his head. What was he supposed to ask for? It killed him every single day to be this weak. Left him feeling broken, downtrodden. How could he ever get back up when every _breath_ was a reminder of what had happened? He looked at Emiel, and he remembered. He looked at Geralt, and he _remembered_. His dreams were plagued with the memories of it. The screaming and the burning pain never left. The pain always came back like a phantom, washing over Eskel where there was no wound.

“Just go, Geralt,” Eskel muttered. “Please.”

As he ducked out the door, Geralt was silent. Not a single word uttered from his lips. As if his heart wasn’t broken already, Geralt came face to face with Emiel as he closed Eskel’s door behind him. Emiel had arms wrapped up tight around a blanket pulled from the bed because he didn’t have anything soft to hold at night; his thumb was in his mouth again, and in one hand he gripped his Wolf’s medallion like a lifeline. He wasn’t crying. Not yet. But there were tears welled up in the corner of his eyes that broke Geralt’s heart that final piece.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Geralt sighed.

He swiped Emiel from the floor, picking him up and holding him tightly. One of Emiel’s little arms went around his neck while the other stayed where it was, tight around his blanket, thumb in his mouth. Geralt rubbed his back slowly as he walked across the room. He found the closest chair and sat down, and never once did the thought to set Emiel down cross his mind. Emiel was shaking in his arms with whatever effort it took not to cry.

“P-please don’t fight,” Emiel choked out. “I-I don’t want bad things to happen.”

“Nothing bad will happen, I promise,” Geralt said. He kissed the side of Emiel’s head and just sighed. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Emmie. Your mom, he just—he had a bad dream.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Fuck, Emmie, no—” Geralt pulled Emiel back just enough so Emiel would look at him. “ _None_ of it is your fault, do you hear me? None of it.”

“Then why were you screaming at each other?” Emiel’s tears started to fall, then. He couldn’t control his sudden blubbering. “I-I don’t want Daddy to go away! I don’t want—” he hiccupped, frantically scrubbing at his face. “I don’t want it! I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!”

Geralt pulled Emiel against him again, patting his back and shushing him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not unless it’s to town and back, okay? No matter what happens, I will always come back here.”

Emiel clutched onto him with enough force to make it sting, but Geralt didn’t complain. He wouldn’t. He would let Emiel cling to him as tightly as he needed to, until the hurt went away, and he could cry himself straight back to sleep.

“I love your mommy very much,” Geralt continued. “And I love you, too. I wouldn’t leave.”

“What if Mommy doesn’t love you?” Emiel asked. “What if Mommy doesn’t love me, either?”

“That’s not possible, sweetheart. Your mommy loves you very much. He would be devastated without you.” Geralt didn’t answer the first question, and thankfully, Emiel didn’t notice. Geralt didn’t want to sit there and wonder, but he did. He’d told Eskel he loved him, and Eskel told him to leave. Did Eskel not love him, anymore? Had Eskel _ever_ loved him, or had it really just been friendship construed in a desperate time?

Those were questions that he couldn’t answer, and it wouldn’t be right of him to demand an answer from Eskel, either. It was just the heat of the night, he decided, that was causing them all heartache. Next time he was in town, he would ask Victoria what he could do for getting Emiel something to sleep with besides this extra blanket. For the time being, he stood up to take Emiel back to bed. Emiel didn’t want him to leave, so Geralt spent his night squeezed up in a small bed with Emiel held close to his chest. And really, it was the best sleep he’d gotten in months.

By the time morning came, everything was back to normal. Geralt was awake first to get something ready to eat. He was going to deliver Eskel’s meal to him, like he did nearly every morning, but Emiel was there to stop him. With him, Emiel had everything he needed to do his lessons with Eskel. He had his parchment, the ink and the quill, and even a book they’d been working through. He found a way to balance everything in his arms _and_ take Eskel’s food with him.

Geralt didn’t say anything more than a good morning before Emiel was heading for Eskel’s door. He smiled and hoped that whatever Emiel was hoping to do worked out just fine. He needed to do some cleaning, anyway. Check the traps outside for animals.

Emiel wandered into Eskel’s room, making sure to close the door behind him with the bump of his rear. Eskel was still asleep, lying on his side with his arm flopped off the side of the bed. Emiel went to the other side of the bed and dropped what he could on the mattress. He set his own food on the floor, for a lack of a solid surface to put it, then walked around the bed to put Eskel’s on the chest of drawers beside the bed. Geralt was still working on getting a nightstand or two, for the future where he might get to sleep in that bed, as well.

“Mommy,” Emiel said, shaking Eskel’s arm. “Mommy, it’s time to get up. I brought food.”

Eskel didn’t respond, as he was too deeply asleep. So, Emiel changed his approach. He moved to the end of the bed where he had more space to scramble himself on up there, and that’s exactly what he did. He crawled along the bed until he could get up to his knees, then he sat like that for only a moment before throwing himself forward.

“Mommy! Wake up!” Emiel plopped himself forward right onto Eskel, who jolted awake in an instant.

In another world, where Eskel was dreaming, his hands caught on the tight dimeritium shackles around his wrists and kept him still. But the thump still came, and Eskel only realized where he was, what was happening, when he heard Emiel _shriek_ at the top of his lungs. Eskel scrambled, panicked up as fast as he could pull himself up to sit, and then—Geralt was bursting through the door. Eskel was panting, breath caught in his throat like he couldn’t _breathe_.

Eskel didn’t know what was happening. He barely knew where he was. All he could hear was the screaming. Emiel was screaming. Geralt was shouting. His own vision was blurry, his ears were ringing, and his heart was pounding.

Geralt tried to get to Emiel. In Eskel’s panic, he’d shoved Emiel off of him. He had to get the weight off. He’d woken up too many times with an alpha on top of him, already cock deep inside of him— _ripping_ him open—to do it again. He didn’t know what he’d done. He still didn’t know what he’d done, hands over his head. Emiel was on the floor, head cut open from the sharp side of the chest of drawers. Screaming, crying, and there was blood. There was always blood.

Eskel couldn’t count how many times he’d been denied the second potion, the one that turned off his fighting instincts at the force of another alpha. He’d _craved_ that potion, but so many times, Noel hadn’t let him have it. Only for the older alphas, the ones who couldn’t get him pregnant anyway. There had been so much _blood_. Eskel remembered his own screams. He never thought he’d recover, but he always did, and they always came right back.

“Emiel—” Eskel heard Geralt’s voice. And then again. “Emiel!”

Eskel looked up as best he could, through the tears in his eyes he hadn’t even realized were there. His hands were over his ears, but he could still hear _everything_. He looked up just in time to see Geralt’s own horrified look before he turned on his heel and ran out the door.

Emiel had gotten up and just _run_. Geralt went after him, tearing out the front door. Emiel was quick and small. He had far less weight to carry, so he moved fast. By the time Geralt was out the door after him, Emiel had disappeared into the forest. Geralt ran as fast as he could, following Emiel’s scent as he weaved in and out between the trees in the bushes. He was catching up fast, and eventually, the scent just came to a dead stop. Geralt barely managed to catch himself on a tree before he ran too far.

He dropped down, immediately. Emiel was curled up in the leaves with his knees to his chest, arms around his legs, sobbing. Geralt didn’t waste a second on hesitation. He grabbed Emiel right off the ground, scooped him up in his arms like he had when Emiel was just an infant. He sat down against the tree, then, rocking Emiel against his chest and trying to calm him down.

“He didn’t mean it,” Geralt told him. “He didn’t mean it.”

Emiel just cried. He pressed his face into Geralt’s shoulder, and the blood smeared into his shirt. Geralt just held him, rocked him, bounced him ever slightly.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Geralt whispered. “It’s okay, Emmie. You’re okay.” It’d all happened so fast that Geralt didn’t _know_ what had happened, only that Emiel was crying so hard he was choking on his own saliva. He’d left Eskel in the bedroom, practically shivering with fear and his own tears. He leaned his head back into the tree and just. “Fuck,” he groaned.

Emiel cried and cried and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore. Even then, though the tears had stopped, the blubbering didn’t. Geralt rocked him through all of it, unwilling to let him go until he was calm. Someone would have to pry Emiel out of his arms, calm or not.

“I’m sor—sorry,” Emiel eventually choked out.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart,” Geralt told him. “You didn’t know. You didn’t know—it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

Emiel sniffed, nodded. He squirmed closer to Geralt, twisting into his chest. Geralt patted his back, then finally stood up.

“A-all my stuff’s in there,” Emiel muttered. “Mommy doesn’t want me—”

Geralt shushed him, shifting Emiel around in his arms so he could lay properly on Geralt’s shoulder. “Mommy wants you plenty,” Geralt said. “Mommy loves you; he was just scared, okay?”

“ _Why_?” Emiel squealed. “Why is Mommy so scared all the time?” Emiel sat back on Geralt’s forearm.

Geralt let out a hefty sigh and ran his fingers back through Emiel’s hair, ruffling him. “It’s a lot for you to understand,” Geralt said. He sighed again, then stopped walking. “He—he was kept in a dark room by himself for a very long time,” he started, unsure of himself. “I wasn’t allowed to see him, but the people who did see him hurt him very badly, do you understand?”

Emiel nodded. “You’ve _told_ me he was hurt.”

“He was hurt for a very long time, though, Emmie. It’s not the kind of pain that goes away, not for a very long time.” Emiel wasn’t old enough to know any pain like that. He hadn’t been in Kaer Morhen the length of time required to start seeing his fellow boys die. He didn’t know what it was like to carry something with him wherever he went, because he just couldn’t forget it. Geralt would never know the weight Eskel carried, but he did carry his own. Gweld’s face still haunted him as the gate closed.

“I—I just want my mommy,” Emiel whimpered, then threw himself back down to Geralt’s shoulder.

“I know you do. This is a very big responsibility for you, and I know that. It’s not always going to be easy, but Mommy just needs you to be patient, okay? He’ll get better.”

“Would he be better faster if I were gone?”

“No, Emiel, he wouldn’t.” Geralt started walking towards the house again. “I don’t think he’ll ever get better without you, okay?” Emiel nodded. “He needs you more than anything.”

Emiel squeezed around Geralt’s neck a little tighter.

Once they were back in the cottage, Geralt took Emiel back to his own room. He sat Emiel down on the side of the bed, where Emiel immediately grabbed his blanket to pull into his lap. He held onto it tight, lip quivering, as Geralt cleaned his forehead and the side of his face of the blood. Thankfully, the cut wasn’t deep enough to need anything major done. No stitches, no risking Witcher potions on a child. Geralt might need to get his hands on some sort of salve for it, but for the moment, he wrapped Emiel’s head up in a bandage and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“You’ll be better by dinner,” Geralt told him, and Emiel nodded. “I’m going to go talk to your mommy now, is that okay?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know. He didn’t mean to hurt you, either. We’ll figure this out.”

Emiel nodded again, and Geralt left after that. He went straight for Eskel’s door, heart pounding in his chest. This was more than he’d ever bargained for. He’d been so caught up in the beautiful image in his head of a happy family, little cottage, that he didn’t know how to deal with the reality. He and Eskel were both actively avoiding the reality, because it was too frightening to give the time of day. As Geralt stepped into the room, his heart stopped again.

The blankets were strewn to the side, pillows thrown, and _fuck_.

“Eskel—” Geralt hurried across the room. Eskel was on the floor, curled up on his side.

He’d watched Emiel run away. Eskel had seen the fear in his son’s eyes and tried to get to him fast enough, tried to reach for him and tell him he was _sorry_ , and fallen right out of the bed. He hadn’t had the strength to pull himself up, nor to even try. He’d fallen and just left himself where he lay, because he didn’t deserve anything better. Even though he couldn’t cry, Eskel shuddered against the floor like he was. There was saliva in his throat to choke on, heaving of his breath—everything just like he was crying, but there would never be any tears. That changed nothing.

“I hurt him,” Eskel muttered. “I hurt my son.”

“He’s fine,” Geralt insisted. “Just a little cut. Won’t even need stitches.”

“I _hurt_ him.” Eskel’s breath quickened.

“And he thinks he hurt you.”

Eskel shook his head. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do any of it. If this was what his new life was going to be, then he might as well have just died at Kaer Morhen. Emiel needed someone who could take care of him, who would actually be able to hold him close and help him grow. He would never have that as long as he and Geralt were both uselessly clinging to a lost cause. As long as Eskel was here, Geralt would never move on and find someone who _could_ take care of their son.

What was Eskel worth, anyway? As an omega, he had nothing to offer. He couldn’t raise their child, nor was he a partner to his alpha—in any way. Just as much as he couldn’t help Geralt skin rabbits for dinner or hang meat out to dry, he couldn’t give Geralt a warm bed to come to at night. Worst of all, he couldn’t give Geralt what Geralt desperately _wanted_ : sex. The very thought of Geralt near him, naked and wanting, had Eskel ready to panic. He knew—he _knew_ that Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, but all he could smell was alpha, and alpha terrified him.

“I’m too weak,” Eskel said, voice half-broken. “I can’t do this. I don’t _deserve it_.”

Geralt wanted to ask if he could come closer. He wanted to ask if it was okay for him to touch. Without the patience, Geralt just followed his instincts. He came closer and, shifting down, hoisted Eskel right off the floor. He felt Eskel tense in his arms, ready for the worst, but he was simply set back down on the bed. Geralt replaced the pillows to ensure there was plenty of support for Eskel to sit up, then shifted the blankets back up so he would be warm.

“Geralt—” Eskel croaked. “I’m so sorry. He shouldn’t—Emiel shouldn’t see me, anymore.”

“Eskel.”

“I’m just going to hurt him worse, next time. What if I get him killed, Geralt? What would I do then?”

“Eskel, listen—”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt him.”

Geralt chanced it, reaching out and cupping the side of Eskel’s face. It was the first real time they’d touched in _ages_. Too long. Eskel jerked at the touch, but after a moment, when no pain came, he relaxed.

“Heat’s about to start,” Geralt said. “You’re on edge.”

Eskel swallowed. “I was having a dream about it. I—I didn’t realize.”

“You can talk to me. If you need to.” Eskel just shook his head, so Geralt sighed. “I’ll take Emiel into town, alright?”

“It’s better that way,” Eskel muttered. “I’ll just hurt him again. You should—you have to take over— _fuck_ ,” Eskel groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “What else can I ask you to do? I can’t do _anything_.”

“You don’t have to. You have to focus on getting better—”

“I’m not _getting_ better! I’m never—” Eskel breathed in deep, swallowing, then exhaled through his nose. “I don’t deserve it,” he said. “Rennes was right. All I’m good for is childbirth.”

Geralt let his hand fall away, his arm going lip at his side.

“Wasn’t even meant to raise my own children. Not cut out for it,” Eskel continued, his voice broken. “Wouldn’t even let me _feed_ them. I—” He cut himself off. Geralt was just staring at him, and Eskel could feel judgment through it. There was none, but he could feel it, anyway. Geralt just looked at him, heartbroken, with nothing more than an urge to _help_. But he couldn’t.

He could tell Eskel, until he was blue in the face, that he was worth every chance at recovery. He had, and it hadn’t worked. He could tell Eskel, until he was blue in the face, that he was a victim and had every right to his pain. He had, and it hadn’t worked. Geralt could tell Eskel, until he was blue in the face, that they _both_ loved him, both wanted him, and both needed him. Eskel didn’t believe any of it. Eskel wasn’t in that room anymore, not physically. But in his mind, the shackles had yet been removed.

“I don’t know what to do,” Geralt finally said, and he sounded so _defeated._ It was exactly what Eskel expected the conversation to sound like: the moment where Geralt would get rid of him. By law, a bonded omega belonged to their alpha. They were property. Witchers weren’t entirely bound by the same rules as the humans, but in a case like this, it would work. Geralt could snap his neck, and no one would even so much as blink about it. Geralt could throw him out into the woods to be eaten by wild dogs. He could even drop Eskel off at the nearest brothel. Eskel was ready for his sentencing.

“Emiel really wanted you to be the one to train him with signs and work on the paper things.” Geralt waved his hand to where Emiel’s supplies were still sitting on the bed. This wasn’t anything like what Eskel expected. “If you really need me to take over, I will, but I don’t know what to do. You’ll need to tell me where he’s at and what he’s working on.”

Oh. Eskel swallowed, and the blubbering started all over again. He didn’t want to keep up this pretend crying, but he was _useless_. He fell forward into his hands and just shook through it, for as long as it took. Geralt didn’t want to kill him, neither did he want to leave him to the wild dogs, nor a brothel. He just wanted to know how to best take care of their son. Why couldn’t Eskel think like that? So busy thinking about himself that he’d let all of this happen. If he hadn’t been so selfish, he would have never even asked for a bond mark. But _fuck_ , he’d always wanted Geralt all to himself.

Now, he had him all to himself. He’d locked Geralt in the prison with him because he was so desperate not to be alone.

“Can I do anything?” Geralt asked.

Eskel shook his head. Instead of talking, he swallowed his thoughts back down his throat and just told Geralt what he needed to know. They were reading one of the story books Geralt had bought in the city of Ellander. They were only a chapter or two in, because it was above Emiel’s reading ability, but it was easier than the poetry book and more appropriate than the romance. As for writing, he was doing wonderfully. He knew his signs, too. It was just a matter of when he could start casting.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. “Make sure you eat.”

Eskel didn’t eat.

When Geralt returned at the end of the week, he had a nightstand for Eskel. He had bought more clothes, another book for Emiel to work on, and repairs for his armor. Each time he left for Eskel’s heat, Eskel felt awful about it. He wanted to be able to welcome Geralt into his bed like he had the first night they’d ever been together. And each time Geralt returned, Eskel hated it. He couldn’t help but thinking that Geralt was finding what he needed somewhere else, because he always came home so _calm_ and content.

In the mornings after, Eskel hated himself for thinking that, because Geralt brought him breakfast on the new nightstand and it was close enough that Eskel didn’t have to strain to eat his food. It was a roller coaster that happened again in the winter, even if it was _harder_ to send Geralt and Emiel away in the snow. Geralt still found a way to leave, and when he came back at the end of the week, he had a sled for Emiel to play on and something that smelled like it’d been made out of pure sugar.

Eskel wouldn’t partake in it, but Geralt and Emiel were going to make their own winter feast. Emiel remembered it from Kaer Morhen, and Geralt hadn’t partaken in it for years. It would be a fun family tradition to begin, and a happy enough way to celebrate the mark of a year being out on their own. Geralt wasn’t exactly a spectacular cook, so they were having stew, freshly baked bread, and the sweet rolls he’d brought home from Ellander. Emiel was excited to help, too.

“Do you think you can stir the stew?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, yes!” Emiel jumped up from the floor to scramble over to help. “I cut the vegetables at the keep.”

“I did, too. I cut them with my friends. Have I told you about them?”

“No! You just about Vesemir this and Vesemir that.” Emiel stuck out his tongue. “Feel like I should be calling him _Grandpa_.”

Geralt snorted. “He might not like that.”

“Friends! Tel me about friends.” Emiel got right to stirring the stew while Geralt returned his attention to the bread. He still had to knead the dough together.

Geralt told Emiel everything he could think of, about Gweld and Gardis. Funny stories, sad stories. He told Emiel about the time he’d been whipped and Gweld had been there to wipe salve on his back and call him names, tell him to pull himself together. Geralt had left out the reasoning for the whipping, but Emiel didn’t ask, either. He stirred the stew while Geralt kneaded the bread.

When everything was set to cook—so the stew could find its flavor and the bread could raise and bake—that was when Geralt ducked off to the dining area. He opened the bench storage he’d built on one of his first summers here. He’d hidden his surprises within, and now was the perfect time to pull them out. He had the wooden horse on wheels, as well as a stuffed bear. It wasn’t much in the way of gifts, but it was what Geralt had. Emiel needed something _fun_ to do; all he did was train and learn.

Emiel had plopped himself right back down on the floor, instead of pulling over a chair, and was busing himself by picking at the laces on his shirt. When Geralt approached, Emiel’s attention was on him. Then, it was on the things in his hands. Emiel’s eyes went wide.

“Daddy? What’s that?” He scrambled up to his knees as Geralt dropped down to his own.

“Been saving these for a special occasion,” Geralt said. “Victoria helped me pick this one out.” Geralt handed over the wheeled horse, first, which had Emiel’s face flush with excitement. “Tara helped me with this one.” The stuffed bear. “She said she has one just like it, so you have to take very good care of it.”

Emiel gasped, taking the bear and nodding. “What—what is it?” He asked, looking up at Geralt. That was a question Geralt wasn’t expecting. “What do I do with these?”

It wasn’t as if Witcher training ever provided much of an opportunity to play. Geralt knew how to goof around because he had friends to help him do it, but Emiel hadn’t had friends at the keep. Tara was his friend now, but most of their games were played from the mind, not on the floor.

“You play,” Geralt said. “Do you want me to play with you? We have plenty of time to wait on the stew.”

Emiel nodded. “Yes, yes. Play. I want to play.”

Outside, the snow was beginning to fall. They had all evening to wait on food, to wait on the bread. Geralt didn’t mind sitting his ass down on the wood to show Emiel how this sort of thing worked. It’d been awhile since he’d really _played_ with Emiel, not since he was a baby back in the laboratory. When it came time for the food to be eaten, they could go eat in Eskel’s room. He’d already been asked, and he’d already agreed to it. Emiel could show off his new toys, then, and things would be okay.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mentions of depression, general violence
> 
> now i wonder who that could be :Oc

Eskel had stopped asking, altogether, to be taken from bed to his chair. The only time he saw anyone was when meals were brought to him, and usually, meals were brought by Emiel. Geralt cooked them, Emiel served them, and neither one of them saw a great deal of Eskel. It was nothing short of worrisome. It’d been the turn of the year when Geralt finally suggested that maybe Eskel try and stand again. He’d even offered his hand, said that he would be right there to help Eskel get up and stay up, and that would be it. Eskel could sit back down, afterward, and be fine.

They’d fought about it. They were fighting more often, now; more often than they ever had back at Kaer Morhen. But they’d been children, then, without responsibilities and without much care. Their lives had flipped upside-down, again and again, and Eskel had no way to cope with it. Things were just happening to him. Geralt had just happened to him. His fate in Kaer Morhen had just happened to him. Even his rescue was something he’d had no say in. He’d just been ripped out of bed and stolen on a horse.

Geralt tried to remain patient; he understood why Eskel didn’t want to do anything other than lie in bed and eat. It was good for him to be eating, anyhow. He was gaining weight: his face had filled back out, and he was starting to look more like himself than he had when Geralt stole away with him. He still allowed Geralt to cut his hair and help him get dressed, but Geralt could make no comments about his sorry state, no matter what place of worry his comments came from.

Winter was breaking; spring would start soon. Emiel would be eight. At ten, Geralt would ask him if he wanted to undergo The Choice. It wasn’t so difficult to hunt down the _special_ Witcher diet, and if Emiel wanted to start it, he could. At fifteen, he would have been facing the Trial of the Grasses, but Geralt couldn’t think that far ahead. That was seven years in the future, and seeing tomorrow was beginning to get difficult. Currently, Geralt was sharpening his swords at the table while Emiel tugged his little horse around.

“Daddy?” Emiel called, suddenly. Geralt grunted in return. “When can we go back to town? Are we going to train today? What are you doing?”

Geralt sighed. Questions. “We’ll be going soon,” he said. Eskel’s heat would start any day. “We can train after I’m finished sharpening my swords.”

Emiel walked up to him, then, leaning on the side of the table. “When do I get a real sword?”

“When you’re old enough to not drop yours on your feet anymore.”

Emiel frowned, and Geralt scoffed out a brief fit of laughter.

“Practice your stances,” Geralt said. “Easy enough to do in here. Let me see what needs correcting.”

Emiel rolled his eyes, clearly ready to move _on_ with the training, but Geralt knew how dangerous that would be. They couldn’t go too quickly, or Emiel would get hurt. Boys died like flies in Kaer Morhen, but Emiel would not. Geralt would make sure they took it one day at a time, as it was meant to be taken.

He was getting better, too. Emiel still had an issue of hunching over too much in his stance, but that could be worked out of him. His footwork was the more important part, and he flitted about as skilled as anyone his age would be. Geralt was almost impressed by it; it was like dancing, really, and Emiel knew all the steps by heart. He worked them out in the open space of the house, and Geralt watched him from the corner of his eye as he sharpened his steel sword.

“Wider,” Geralt said. “Don’t need to be breaking your ankles.”

“I won’t break my ankles—”

“Keep the talk to yourself.”

Emiel grunted, but he continued. He muttered under his breath each time Geralt corrected him in too much a way that reminded Geralt of himself. He trained with Vesemir, sometimes, even before he’d passed the Grasses and moved out of the bastion. Vesemir was his mentor: the closest thing he would ever have to a father. Vesemir did this for him, back when he was young. He’d sit outside and work on sharpening swords while Geralt practically danced for him to work on his footing.

“Alright,” Geralt said as he finished his work. “Go get dressed—good boots on, please. The snow’s not melted. I need to go talk to your mom.”

“Okay!” Emiel was more than happy to stop the footwork dance. He dashed right for his room before Geralt had even set down his sword.

Geralt left his swords on the table and went straight for Eskel’s room. He knocked on the door, two simple raps of his knuckles, then waited for Eskel to call him in. It came out as more of a whimpering groan than it did as any word, but Eskel had only just woken up. He’d been sleeping longer and longer as the days went by. Geralt stepped into the room and the closed the door behind him before he finally took a look at Eskel. He just sighed, without a care in the world for if Eskel heard it.

“You’re not even going to sit up today?” Geralt asked.

Eskel didn’t respond with more than a sideways glance. He could practically feel the disappointment radiating off of Geralt, but it wasn’t anything in comparison to Eskel’s own disappointment. Geralt didn’t understand what it was like. Eskel did, and he still hated what it did to him. He _could_ sit up, but why would he even bother? It was a chore. Everything was a chore. His breakfast still sat untouched and cold on the nightstand.

“Alright. That’s—” Geralt sighed.

“If you came in here to yell at me, then get out.”

“I came in here to ask you if you need anything,” Geralt bit back. “I’m taking Emiel out to train.” It was a morning ritual, something that Eskel should be expecting, and he’d snapped instead. Eskel rubbed his face and tried not to hate himself more.

“Water,” he said. “Just some water.”

“Water,” Geralt repeated. “I’ve started on food to leave you for your heat, too. Emiel’s itching to go to town, so we’ll leave a bit early. Unless you—”

“That’s fine,” Eskel cut him off. “I’ll be fine.”

Geralt’s look hardened. “We both know that’s not true.”

Geralt shouldn’t have said it, but it was out of his mouth before he even knew what was happening. But he was right. Eskel wasn’t fine. He wasn’t doing anything to _be_ fine. He certainly didn’t even believe that being fine was possible—that it was something he deserved. Eskel couldn’t even argue the comment, because Geralt was right. They both knew it. Eskel said nothing as Geralt stepped back out into the house.

Emiel was ready to go and entirely unaware of what was happening. It was better that way. He didn’t need to know of whatever storm was brewing between his parents; Geralt knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, as he saw them in another screaming match within the week. Each time they shouted loud enough for Emiel to hear, it terrified the poor boy. He’d lived the majority of his life without parents, and now that he had them, anything that meant he might _lose_ this nearly ruined his life.

With a hand on Emiel’s shoulder, Geralt ushered him outside. He’d dressed as warmly as he ought to for the kind of physical work they’d be doing, and he had his good boots on, just like Geralt had said. He had his wooden sword in his hands and his Wolf medallion around his neck. Emiel may never have a real Wolf’s medallion, but it was the sight that nearly mattered more. Emiel _could_ be a Witcher. One day. If things worked out in the next seven years, anyway.

Going back to Kaer Morhen was as stupid an idea as it was dangerous. Geralt didn’t know what sort of state it was in, nor did he know if any of the Wolves had even survived. As much as he didn’t want to reopen the risk that something could happen to him or his family, he didn’t want to risk his own peace of mind. Going back would mean confronting the demons in his questions—what happened to Gweld; did Gardis ever make it back; was Vesemir still alive?

“When do I get to start hitting things?” Emiel asked.

“When I get you a better sword. We’ll train until midday, and then we need to pack to go into town, alright?”

“Yes! I want to see Tara.”

“You will get to see Tara. We’ll start with drills. If I find a good contract in town, maybe I’ll buy you a better sword before we come home, deal?”

“Deal!”

Emiel ran his drills. It was clockwork. Emiel was destined at birth to be good at these things, and he was. He listened to Geralt, reacted quicker than a normal boy would have, and performed just as well as he always had. He was getting better, too, daily. He might even be ready for a real sword sooner than Geralt anticipated. If he could find another spare hide and a sturdy stick, he could make Emiel a training dummy. That would be good for him and might be cheaper than a sturdier sword for hitting trees.

They left for town in mid-February. Geralt had ensured that Eskel had everything he needed to live on his own, in that same spot in the bed in which he was not even sitting anymore, before they left. Eskel had resigned himself to lying down; he spent his days half-asleep or asleep. When he was awake, it was unpleasant. His distress flooded the house with a putrid scent, and it was by virtue of Emiel’s age alone that he couldn’t smell it. He knew something was bad, though. He could see it in Geralt.

On the way to town, Geralt regaled Emiel with a story from Kaer Morhen. This time, he chose the story of his first run of the Killer. He tried to describe it the best that he remembered, but Emiel was more interested in what happened. Geralt hadn’t learned until many years later the truth of the story, but he told it to Emiel, anyway—how Gardis had saved Gweld’s life. It was partially thanks to Gweld’s portrayed incompetence, but Gardis had a kind heart in him.

“I want to meet your friends, Daddy,” Emiel said.

Geralt tightened his hold around Emiel’s middle. “I know. I hope you can, one day. They wanted to meet you to, you know.”

“They did?” Emiel twisted around to look at Geralt.

“Gweld wanted you to call him uncle. Was dead set on it, actually.”

“Shall,” Emiel responded, quite proud of himself. “Uncle Gweld.”

Geralt smiled. Now, he just had to hope that Gweld would still be around to hear it. He’d been promised a pack, after all, and was still missing two key members. He may never see them again, but Geralt wouldn’t give up hope. Not until he knew for sure what had happened to them.

They arrived in town before nightfall, making good time by cutting through the meadow instead of taking the roads. Geralt knew right where to go so well he might have been able to do it in his sleep. He knew Ellander, and he knew exactly where to lead Roach through the buildings and the people. Victoria, her husband, and Tara lived in a little house that was mostly forge and only partly house. It was right at the edge of town where they had space for the cows.

The forge was shut off for the night, but there were lights on inside the house to indicate that they were still awake. Geralt pulled Roach up to the side of the fence, then dismounted. Emiel was tired, so instead of having him work on dismounting himself, Geralt just caught him as he made the dramatic fall to the side. Emiel certainly had a flair for it—the dramatic. Geralt shifted him around his arms to rest on his shoulder, then walked up to the door of the house. He knocked just twice.

“Someone’s at the door!” He heard Tara shout.

“Keep ye arse in your seat,” her father responded. “I’ll get it.’

Geralt stood there for only a minute while the door was opened, then he gave a soft smile.

“Ah, Geralt,” the man said. He and Geralt didn’t talk much, nor did they particularly get along. Victoria had no issues with Witchers, but her husband felt differently. Thought Geralt was the scum of the earth, a mutated monster, himself. Thankfully, no one knew of Emiel’s designs to become one, nor that he had been born of two.

“Emiel!” Tara shrieked, and she pulled herself right out of her chair, against Dad’s orders. He just sighed and shook his head. Victoria arrived in the picture a moment later.

“Oh, for the night?” Victoria perked up. “For a week, perhaps?”

“The week,” Geralt said. He hadn’t even stopped to look at the notice board, but he was sure something was wrong. Something was always wrong.

“Good that you’re here, then,” Victoria stepped up and, after a brief whisper between her and her husband, took Emiel from Geralt. “Oh, you’re getting big,” she commented. “Anyway, there’s was talk out in the market today about someone with a hefty bit of a coin for a Witcher. Saw another one, too. The one I told you about before?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know hows competitive you get, but you might want to check it out before you check in for the night.”

Thankfully, Geralt didn’t need to sleep. He could mediate for a couple of hours if he needed to, but this was going to be something he focused on immediately. If there was another Witcher in Ellander, that could cause trouble. If it were a Wolf, that could cause _more_ trouble. Geralt was in no condition to be found and dragged back. Either way, it meant competition. He needed the coin worse than he ever had when he was on his own.

He left Emiel there with his stuffed bear, his blanket, and his practice sword. He gave him a kiss on the cheek, then Victoria took him straight to bed. Travel was more exhausting than it had any right to be, and Emiel deserved the night to eat and rest. Geralt, however, wouldn’t rest until he saw sunlight.

Right on the notice board was what he could only assume Victoria was talking about. It was promising a reward of five-hundred crowns, plus extra should certain conditions be met, for dealing with an _ogre_. Geralt gulped as he tugged down the notice. An ogre? He’d only read about them. They were a rare, rare creature. One was much more likely to run into a troll than they were an ogre, and even then, all the way in the city? The notice went on to explain that the patron would pay five-hundred crowns for the death of the ogre, but up to six hundred regarding the return of certain body parts.

Geralt grimaced. Something about magic, he assumed. He didn’t know precisely what ogre organs could be used for, but this person seemed to. It didn’t sit right, because there was one thing that Geralt knew about ogres—from the oldest of the oldest books at Kaer Morhen. Ogres were rare because they weren’t born like monsters were. They were similar to werewolves—afflicted by a curse that changed them into something hideous and monstrous. They often lost their minds to the curse.

Once, maybe, there had been enough of them for the legends to start, but the magic was old. Usually, people just killed them. But there was a chance this curse was new enough that it could be lifted, and the original person restored. This contract was only calling for the ogre’s death, and the contract looked as if it had been torn down once and stuck again to the board. Victoria did say there was another Witcher in town. Geralt folded the contract and stuck it into his jerkin, then turned. And stopped.

Someone was standing right behind him. Geralt should have sensed them coming, but he hadn’t. He’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t been paying attention, which was stupid and _dangerous_ , but this person meant him no harm. If they did, he would have been struck down.

“You’re Geralt, aren’t you?” they asked. They smelled of nothing and had a voice that neither struck Geralt as male or female.

“I am.”

They produced a piece of parchment. “There’s already been some brave fool out to slaughter the ogre,” they said, “but we’re hoping someone with a bit more tact could get involved.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a Witcher. You know where ogres come from. We’re hoping you could break the curse, as the cursed is someone we would very much like to see returned.”

Geralt took the paper he was offered, then, and looked down at it. He didn’t know much about the fineries of politics and mannerisms, but he’d been in Ellander long enough to recognize the seal of the Duke. The Duke was his official contractor, and that worried him.

“I’ll be accompanying you,” the person said. “The contract goes through me. It’s best no one knows the truth of the matter, do you understand? The ogre has been terrorizing the land, and if the truth about it were known, well. I shouldn’t have to explain that, to you. The Duke will have no part in this, and you are not to speak of it.”

Geralt nodded. “What’s the reward? I don’t work for free.”

“A thousand crowns, Master Witcher.”

“Fuck,” was Geralt’s response. The person laughed, clearly amused. But that number of crowns would solve his problems immensely. It would finish the house, ensure they had clothes and food for at least the next six months. Geralt needed to do this contract more than he needed to do anything else.

“Do whatever preparations you need to. We’ll meet at the edge of town. The ogre was last sighted heading south, and we’ll need to ride swift to catch it. The other Witcher has days head start, and we do know he plans to kill it.”

“Know anything about this other Witcher?”

The person shook their head. “Not a thing, Master Witcher. The contract he took was posted by the people afflicted by the ogre. They don’t care how it’s dealt with, only that it is. I assure you, this is the better choice.”

“Never dealt with an ogre. This should be fun.”

“I’m glad it amuses you, Master Witcher. Make your preparations and we will live at daybreak for the south. Does that suit your needs?”

Geralt nodded. “Farewell,” he said, as the person took their leave.

He peeled the parchment he’d been given open and leaned against the notice board to read. The ogre was the Duke’s daughter—a daughter that nobody knew he had. She’d been afflicted with the curse at a young age, and though it hadn’t taken full effect until the eve of her sixteenth year, it had lingered. It had caused terrible mood swings in her youth, revealing her to be ugly of heart and cruel. When she turned sixteen, the transformation had taken place. Now, she was nearly ten feet tall with monstrous tusks.

That could prove troublesome. If the curse had been there since her youth, it may be too late to try and remove it. The only option may _be_ death, especially if the rest of the letter was true. According to the missive, the girl had already lost herself to madness. Her father believed, wholly, that she was still inside the great monster’s body she possessed, but Geralt doubted. He would do his best to attend the situation, especially if one thousand crowns were to be his reward.

His first stop, though done under secrecy, was the Duke’s manor. His daughter’s name was Ellana, which Geralt thought was rather _creative_. It was a comment he kept to himself, and he was escorted to see her residence. He expected to be taken upstairs, where things were still draped in finery and made of fine craftsmanship. Instead, he was led down through a corridor that only got darker the deeper they went. The torches didn’t follow all the way to the end, and the walls turned to stone about midway through.

At the end of the hall there was a door, which the Duke’s guard unlocked with a brass key. Something settled poorly in Geralt’s stomach as he was let in through the door, which led towards stairs. Immediately, he could smell the putridness of distress, but there was more. Something like berries. He stepped down the stairs, and the guard followed. The scent of berries became more prominent as Geralt descended, and then he came to stand in a room that smelled of grief and fruit cocktail.

“She was kept down here,” Geralt said. “How did she get out?”

“Had the wall’s repaired after she broke out. Not entirely in the basement, you mind,” was the reluctant answer. The guard had been told to help Geralt _and_ ensure he didn’t speak to anyone. “What we doing down here anyway? Gives me the creeps.”

“The girl’s been cursed,” Geralt grumbled. “Understanding the nature of the curse means it can be broken. Do you know what happened?”

“Not a clue, and I don’t rightly care.”

Geralt snorted. He’d figure it out on his own.

The girl’s room was large, though it was made entirely of stone. To his immediate left was a place that had once been for eating, a table and benches. The candles were all strewn across the stone floor, and the table had been smashed. A large bookshelf separated the dining room for a reading nook that housed only more shelves. Then, to the right, there was a smashed bed chamber and clothes thrown out of the open chest of drawers and wardrobe.

The Duke had the wall patched up where she’d smashed her way out of her prison, but he hadn’t bothered to have anything cleaned up. Other than the wooden splinters, Geralt could only assume she was a messy child, then. Impossible to keep up after, so they let her live in her own filth. Fine enough.

The dining area seemed rather unused. Geralt stepped up into it, and though the room stank of fruit and emotion, this area felt barren. The only signs of distress came directly from whatever fit the girl had gone into upon her transformation. That would account for the state of the bed, too, collapsed from the middle as if she’d been lying in it when it happened.

“Woke up to the body of an ogre,” Geralt rumbled. “Couldn’t have been pleasant. Signs here say she may have been lost to madness immediately.”

He stepped across the room to the reading nook. The shelves were filled to the brim with books in nonsensical order. She was an avid reader, then, and every book was on the subject of magic. She knew of her own curse and was attempting to remove it but was receiving little help. They’d locked her away instead of getting help, or—they’d gotten help from a local witch who couldn’t provide the answers they needed. Either way, at some point, the Duke had given up. Ellana hadn’t.

The scent of the girl was strongest in her books, but it stayed nearly as strong near the only piece of furniture left intact. It was a vanity trimmed with filigree and gold, standing on twisted carved legs. The mirror within it was fogged, but Ellana had been able to substitute for better glass. Geralt followed her scent straight to the top drawer of the vanity, and that was where it nearly exploded in his face. He could see it—she came to this drawer every day and took her things over to the reading nook where she spent her hours attempting to combat the inevitable.

Inside the drawer were two things: a locket and a hand mirror. Geralt picked them both up, one in each hand, and inspected them. The locket looked ancient, but it bore the seal of the city upon it. It must have been an heirloom of sorts. From the state of it, as well as a waning smell, Geralt could conclude that she rarely looked at it. She may have stopped when it became clear that her fate was inevitable.

“Know anything about mood swings, fits of anger?” Geralt asked the guard.

“Nothing more than she was a right good menace, she was. We all hated dealing with her. Right awful mouth on her. Good right hook, for what it’s worth.”

Strength. She was getting stronger with age, the closer to the fruition of her curse. The Duke didn’t have a partner, at least not one bound to him legally, which meant Ellana’s mother was likely dead. This curse could have been left over from a botched birth. The curse could have been from the mother, herself, knowing that the birth of her child would be her end. It was hard to say without any definitive proof, and Geralt wouldn’t find any. All he knew was the curse was old, and Ellana had lived with its knowledge for her entire life.

“You find everything you need, yet, Witcher?”

“Tell me if the girl suffered anything else? What did her foul mood bring?”

“Duke spent half the city’s fucking funds on buying that wrench dress and makeup. Believed so much that if she thought she was pretty she’d be less of a menace. Always complained about it, the girl. Looked in the mirror and saw something so hideous she tried to peel off her own skin. Coulda been as pretty as a painting, that one, and none of us would be liking her a crown more, you understand. She was cruel to the best of us, abusive to the worst.”

Geralt didn’t need to know more. He needed the locket and the mirror, and he could break the curse. If her ailment were vanity, the mirror she used to perpetrate it would be enough. The locket would be to ground her here long enough that she could play her part in the ritual. It was a simple one, provided Ellana was still in that ogre’s body. If they were too late, they were too late, and Geralt would have no choice but to kill her.

After he was finished in the Duke’s manor, he road Roach out to the edge of town, the southern exit. It was there he met his companion for the ride, though his companion would not introduce themselves. They neither spoke their name or with anything distinguishable, and likely for reason. This wouldn’t be the kind of thing a ruling power wanted out, so the less Geralt knew, the better. Half of the reward was likely to keep his silence.

“How far is it?” Geralt asked.

“We’ll find it when we find it.”

They rode in the dark. The companion seemed to have an idea of where they were going, but Geralt wasn’t entirely sure. The scent was harder to follow out in the air, and what he found was old. She had certainly come this way, but how long ago? At least a day. They may already find her dead, depending on how skilled this other Witcher was. Geralt hoped the Witcher was just here for the contract and not for him. With how far south they were, it was entirely possible he could run into another school.

The farther they road from town, the more prominent the scent became. The destruction was clear, too. As the sun began to peek over the edge of the horizon, Geralt could see, too, that they were following large, depressed tracks in the mud. Trees were broken. They even passed by the wreckage of an old, abandoned house, that of a cart and a dead horse. Ellana was ripping things apart in her track, and they were going to have to move quickly.

It was easy to find her once they were close enough to hear her. Geralt heard her first, then veered off into the grass. He dug his heel into Roach’s side to make her go faster, and she did, galloping through the mud with their companion following close behind. Within minutes, the ogre was in his sight. She was angry, throwing her hands from side to side in an epic cry. Geralt could see another man, too—the Witcher. Dodging to the side in a quick roll.

“Stay to the far side of the field!” Geralt shouted back at his companion.

“I must ensure you do not kill the girl!” They shouted back.

Geralt groaned and grumbled. He didn’t have time to worry about the person, only himself. When he got close enough, he jumped from Roach’s back and rolled on the ground to catch himself. She would keep running, get herself to safety, while Geralt stood to face the ogre. He may be facing another Witcher, too.

“Hey—watch yourself, asshole!” the other Witcher shouted. “This one’s _mine_!”

“You can’t kill it!” Geralt snarled back. “Not until we’re sure the curse can’t be broken!’

“Oh, fuck _off_!” Came another yell. The Witcher dodged to the side. Geralt couldn’t see his face, as it was obscured by a hood.

Geralt groaned, but he fished for his items out of his bag. The locket and the mirror. He just needed to get the ogre’s attention for the locket, and if she would calm down enough, it would work. If she didn’t calm down at all, then Geralt had either fucked up in his investigation or she was too far gone to be saved. The latter was more likely.

And then, the unthinkable happened. Right there. Geralt had _told_ his forced companion to stay away, but they’d come anyway. The arrival of horses had changed the ogre’s attention away from the Witcher, anyway. Now she was looking at them. The companion’s horse reared back with a shrieking noise as the ogre’s arms raised. Geralt ducked to the side in a quick roll, but horses were not so easily moved in fear. The horse was crushed, the companion along with it.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled, then he ran.

“Oh, rough!” The other Witcher shouted. “I think that means I win, don’t I? My contractor’s not fucking _dead_!”

Who the fuck was this guy, anyway? Geralt just rolled his eyes; they were both running, anyway, for the nearest bout of cover. They conjoined there, and in the heat of battle, Geralt was more focused on the ogre than he was his unwitting new companion. The Witcher shot back a quick potion.

“Don’t think either of us can take it alone,” Geralt said. “Don’t think it’s worth breaking the curse, anyhow. Wouldn’t work.”

“Smart, smart. What’s your deal?”

Geralt mulled it over. “Help you kill this thing, split the reward. We split whatever coin the dead guy had on him.”

“Sounds great. Let’s see your steel then, Wolf!” The other Witcher shot out from around the rock. He’d seen Geralt’s medallion; Geralt hadn’t thought to look for his.

Geralt dove off, then, too, drawing forth his silver sword. He swallowed a quick thunderbolt potion for strength, then surged forward on the heels of his boots. The other Witcher had all but vanished, but Geralt could hear him in the next second. He’d found his way behind the ogre, going in for a hard and fast attack at the back of its calves. Geralt went for the front, slicing at the knees. The best way to bring the giant, tusked beast down was to take its legs from it.

It roared, throwing its arms through the air and nearly knocking them both away. Geralt was thrown to the grass, but the other Witcher managed to dodge with reflexes the like of which Geralt had never seen. It reminded him of Emiel.

No time for thoughts like that. Geralt rebounded back to his feet and struck the ogre’s hand away as it came barreling back down. Geralt latched himself onto the mass of its arm, pulling himself up and driving the point of his blade straight into the monster’s shoulder. She howled with her pain, shaking and recoiling back. The other Witcher was there with the strike to the back of her other leg, enough to bring her tumbling down to her knees.

Geralt pulled back his blade and struck for the neck, then. The shooting of blood was nearly terrifying. A wave of it as the ogre gargled and thrashed. Geralt was thrown off to the ground, and the other Witcher stepped in with his own silver blade. He struck true and quick, never close enough for long enough that the ogre could grab him or tear at him. He struck like an assassin might. Fast, straight for pressure points and weak joints. Geralt pulled himself back up, and the ogre was so incapacitated that he could go in for the final stab, the final kill.

She fell to the ground, defeated. Geralt stopped, panting. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his glove, then looked at the other Witcher. The other Witcher didn’t even give him the time of day. He drew forth his knife from his belt and went straight for the ogre, straddling over its shoulders to take a _seat_ on the body while he carved at the neck.

In the meantime, Geralt turned back to the smashed horse and the smashed person. They were too bloody to be recognizable, but that didn’t stop Geralt from digging through his pockets. He felt worse off for having to do it, but it would be proof to take back to the Duke, too. Maybe they could get even more coin. Sure enough, the person was carrying a pouch. Only a couple hundred crowns, but it was easy enough to split.

“Hey, this thing’s got a fucking—thing. Wait. Here.” The other Witcher was talking from across the field, but Geralt heard. When he turned, he caught what he was thrown—a doll. “You seem to know more about it than I do, so let’s wring some coin, yeah? Meet me at the tavern with what you get. I keep your share until you show up.” He wriggled the ogre’s head in his hand.

“How do I know I’ll find you there?’

“Because I love a good pot of gold. Get going, Wolf boy.” The Witcher laughed. He whistled into his fingers, and a horse came out from the tree line for him. The horse didn’t even stop its trot; the Witcher just grabbed onto the saddle and hoisted himself up as it went.

Geralt had seen the medallion, that time. School of the Cat. What he knew about them, he knew from the stories at Kaer Morhen. They were less disciplined than the Wolves. They stuck less to the Witcher’s code and just did what they could for money. Some of that could have been scare tactic to keep the boys from teaming up, but some of it could have been true. This Witcher certainly seemed to have a hefty pair on him.

Geralt called for Roach, then made his way back into town. He had the things he’d taken from Ellana’s room, plus the doll. She hadn’t been so lost to madness when she escaped—just afraid. Only a child filled with fear went for their doll. Maybe the ogre they’d killed hadn’t been Ellana, anymore, but it had been, once. The Duke deserved to know, and Geralt would be the one to tell him. He rode straight for the manner, then stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to the door.

The guards let him right in, and Geralt followed the smell through the house to find the Duke. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have to. He approached, quickly, and dropped his haul onto the table where the Duke had been resting.

“Whoever you sent for me died. There’s his gloves. Curse wasn’t breakable, so she didn’t survive. Found a doll with her, though.”

The Duke didn’t say anything. He just looked at Geralt with tired eyes and waved for someone. Geralt couldn’t help the pang of guilt at a double pay, but he’d _finally_ be able to finish the house with this. One of the Duke’s men handed Geralt a purse, and inside was the thousand-crown reward. Geralt said nothing more than his farewells, then left. He had to meet the other Witcher back in town, and though they hadn’t specified a place, Geralt couldn’t help but assume the tavern. That’s where all the seedy people went.

It was near midday by the time Geralt got the tavern. He left Roach out with the rest of travelers’ horses and headed his way inside. He didn’t make it two steps in before he heard a loud commotion from the right, and he turned to the noise to watch that very same Witcher, hood down, now, throw up his hands in celebration as he was reluctantly passed a pile of crowns. Gambling. Fine. The Witcher put an end to it quickly when he saw Geralt, and Geralt approached.

The whole tavern was dead, aside for that single moment. It was too early in the day, or too late in the morning—depending on perspective—to be drinking. They weren’t the only two in the establishment, but they were certainly the only two with any dignity. Though, Geralt doubted that in its entirety. He crossed the creaky floorboards over to the table the Witcher had chosen. He had his gambling winnings halved, already, and was starting to work on the reward. He hadn’t taken the time to get the extra crown, so he was separating out two-hundred and fifty for each of them.

Geralt stopped in his tracks as he reached the table as that _smell_ hit him. The Witcher stood up to greet him, as was a proper thing to do, though they didn’t shake hands. Geralt was staring at him with wide, unbelieving eyes. This wasn’t possible.

“Name’s Aiden,” The Witcher said.

“You’re an omega,” Geralt replied, not even bothering to hide the way he gawked.

“Oh shit—I hadn’t noticed.”

“And a Witcher.”

“Figure that all out on your own, did you?” Aiden quirked an eyebrow. “Something to be said for the investigations of a Witcher. I’d tip my hat, but—” Aiden pointed to his head, which did not have a hat.

Aiden wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short. He was about a head shorter than Geralt, with sharp, golden eyes and a sharper tongue. He had slightly tanned skin from long months spent out in the sun, splattered with freckles on all of the skin Geralt could see—and he could see a lot of it. Aiden was wearing a tight leather vest and gloves up to his elbows, straps for his swords, knives, and bags. His hair was bright orange, pulled back in a half-tail similar to Geralt’s own.

Everything Aiden wore was tight, even his breeches. It was the perfect proof that Aiden did _not_ have a hefty pair of anything, not in physicality. There was hardly a shape to his crotch at all. He certainly didn’t look like an omega Geralt had ever seen, but he certainly could boast an hourglass figure. If anything, he was _pretty_ , but that mouth of his probably got him into more trouble than it was worth.

“Are you just going to stare at me all day, or are we going to do this thing? I don’t exactly want to live up in this shitty tavern, if you know what I mean.” Aiden sat back down and returned to counting the money.

“You’re—how?” Geralt asked, sitting down across the table.

“How?” Aiden gawked. “Same as you, I’d bet. Though, we get special treatment, not having real cocks and all. You suck enough people off and they let you skip the test—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Aiden looked aghast with disbelief. “You think that because I’m an omega I can’t be a Witcher? I did it the same as you—passed my trials without kicking the damn bucket.”

“That’s not—that’s not what I meant,” Geralt said. “Didn’t mean any offense by it.”

Aiden softened. “Right. Sorry. What _do_ you mean, then?”

This wasn’t the first topic of conversation Geralt should have with a stranger, and he knew it. But Aiden. He was something Geralt thought didn’t exist—an omegan Witcher. Kaer Morhen had exactly one omega, and Rennes had made sure he never became a Witcher. How was it that Aiden could just be one? He didn’t walk around hiding himself, either. Geralt could smell the omega on him as plain as day, which meant _any_ alpha could smell it on him. The only precaution Aiden seemed to take was a thick leather choker laced at the back of his neck.

Geralt let all of it spill, right there. He told Aiden about Eskel—his best friend, his mate, his omega. They’d bonded at fifteen, Eskel had gotten pregnant, and they’d stripped any right from him that he could even be a Witcher. Locked him in a room for the next seven _years_ and forced him into childbirth again and again. The whole story was dark and daunting. Aiden had stopped counting coin midway through and just stared at Geralt, eyes wide. Aiden didn’t smell with terror, but his eyes quivered with it as Geralt continued.

“I got him out,” Geralt said. “We live a day’s ride from the city with our son, but we’ve got a problem.”

“I’m not fucking your omega,” Aiden said, firstly.

Geralt frowned. “That is not the problem. Did you listen to anything I said?”

Aiden mulled something over. “I’m not fucking you, either.”

“Aiden!” Geralt gruffed. “He’s practically rotting away. You’re the _answer_ to this problem.”

Aiden mulled that over, too, before he went back to counting coin. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a bright idea. You want to come home and what—parade around a new omega that’s literally everything yours wanted to be but couldn’t? Knew you alphas were stupid, but fuck, that’s stupid.”

“Parade you around? Nowhere in this plan does anyone fuck anyone,” Geralt reiterated with a growl in his voice. “Not marching you home like you’re some prize I won in a game of cards.”

Aiden shrugged. “So, what? You want me to talk to him? Give him the pep talk of the century and see if that magically gets him out of bed?”

“Would that be too much to ask? Give you an extra fifty crowns to do it.”

Aiden frowned. “Seventy-five,” he said. “Should I stop counting coin, then?”

Geralt reached out and slid his share over to him. “I pay you _after_ ,” Geralt said.

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go shed some wonderful motivation and walk out with some extra coin. We gotta stop by daycare first, or what? You just leave your kid at home with an invalid?”

“He’s with someone. Why are you such an ass?”

“Makes it easier.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” Aiden replied, standing up to stretch. “First year out on the Path. How you think I did?”

Geralt’s face blanched, as if it were possible for him to get any paler. Aiden was _eighteen_. Wolves didn’t go out on the Path until they were twenty, and here Aiden was: a Cat whose bright idea had been to try and fight an ogre on his own. Had he even gone through the Trial of the Mountains? Did he even _know_ what he was doing? Suddenly, Geralt felt like he was in the presence of a child, and for no real good reason. He was only six years older.

“Shall we get going, Wolf boy, or are you just going to gawk at me for the rest of the day?”

“We can’t go back, not yet,” Geralt said. “We left home because—he’s in heat. Doesn’t like company.”

“Oh, that’s rough. My sympathies, but I’m still not going to fuck you.”

“Don’t even want you to.”

Aiden feigned offense. He stashed his coin in his bag, and they made a plan. They would meet back at the tavern at the end of the week; Geralt would have Emiel with him, and Aiden would have whatever he needed. After that, Geralt would lead him back to the cottage. This was something that required an immense amount of trust, but after Aiden had stopped the japes and the jokes, he understood.

“Look,” Aiden said. “Cats train omegas, it’s true, but don’t think for a minute it’s anything like how you got trained. From day one they’re out there acting like I don’t know my damn cunt from my sword. Whatever your boy went through, I want to help.”

Geralt sighed, but their decision was made. They parted ways at the tavern with plans to meet back there. They would be fair about the work in town, too; Aiden was more agreeable to that now that he knew Geralt was trying to provide for a family on this kind of work. By the end of their meeting, Geralt decided that Aiden wasn’t _bad_ , he just spoke before he thought about almost everything he said. Which made sense. He was only eighteen—Geralt felt like he was taking another child home with him, really.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: mentions of blood and bodily function

Before Geralt walked into the tavern, he scooped Emiel off the ground and hoisted him up into his arms. It wouldn’t be long before Emiel was too big for this altogether, but as long as he wasn’t, Geralt was going to carry him. While the tavern was the last place he wanted to take his eight-year-old, they had to be off as quickly as possible, which meant Geralt had to get Emiel first. They’d had another tearful reunion in the forge-yard at Tara’s house, but he’d managed to pry Emiel away. Emiel was resting on his shoulder, stuffed bear hugged tight between them, when Geralt stepped inside.

Aiden was already there, sitting at the same table he’d been sitting at a week prior when they counted out their money and made their agreement. He was mulling over the very interesting grains in the wooden table when Geralt approached; Aiden perked up instantly, whether at the scent of him or the sound of his boots. Upon looking at him, Aiden decided in less than a second that Geralt was of absolutely no interest. He stood up, eyes bright but smile struggling to form.

“Oh, who’s this?” He asked, his voice pitched.

Emiel, ever shy and still recovering from his recent trauma of leaving Tara, pressed his face into Geralt’s shoulder. That alone just had Aiden looking intrigued.

“This is Emiel,” Geralt said, shifting his shoulder to try and get Emiel to suffer through a proper introduction. “Emiel, this is Aiden. Are you going to say hello?”

Emiel did not say anything, just shoved his face harder into Geralt’s shoulder and twisted away. Aiden grinned.

“My apologies,” Geralt sighed. “Woke him up early and then told him we were leaving. Never likes to leave the city.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Aiden said. “He’s a cutie, and that means he gets a free pass.”

Geralt snorted with his amusement. “Ready to go?”

Aiden was. He didn’t have so much as a bag to grab, simply headed straight for the door. Geralt followed, and once they were both out in the sun, they mounted their horses. Aiden had a pretty horse, one that was spotted black and white in blotches like paint. She didn’t have a name, but there was always time to name or not name a horse. They didn’t require names. Even now, Geralt was planning on naming his next horse Roach as well; easier to keep track, that way. The principle was the same for not naming a horse at all. They were expendable beasts, however friendly and loyal.

Geralt led their miniature caravan towards the north end of the city, and then outward. He was all but done taking the roads in and out of Ellander, simply to cut time off of the trips. Aiden followed closely behind him, silent, until they had finally left the city. Just outside the limits it was all grass and the snows’ best effort to melt. The sun was high, but there was still a chill in the air. Once they left the city, though, Aiden kicked into his horse’s side and trotted up alongside Geralt.

“You know,” Aiden said. “You never did introduce yourself.”

“Did I not?”

“You were too busy gawking at things better not repeated in front of the little one.”

Geralt snorted. “Geralt,” he introduced.

“Geralt.” Then, Aiden sighed. It felt rather out of place, but something was weighing on him. “Geralt,” he repeated, “what are you even looking to accomplish?”

Geralt looked at him.

“Been thinking about it all week, you know, and just— _fuck_ , I don’t know what to say to him. What do you even want me to say? If you’re hoping that I’ll magically be able to get him—”

“I’m not. I told you that already.”

Aiden went silent, looking forward. He wanted to help Eskel more than anything, if for no better reason than he wanted to help out another omega who’d been in a shit situation. Aiden hadn’t exactly had _fun_ during his Cat training, though he had managed to get through it. He couldn’t imagine what Eskel had gone through, nor did he even want to. It would be so easy to see himself in that situation, and the very idea brought bile to the back of his throat. If he could be a part of the solution, he wanted to find a way to do it.

That didn’t mean he just magically knew what to do. He was eighteen. The only things he’d ever experienced were things he threw himself headfirst into. Being as it was his first year on the Path, there was plenty that he didn’t know or hadn’t learned, yet. He’d known well enough from training that no one regarded omegas with any ounce of respect. Eskel was at least lucky to have someone like Geralt with him—not that Aiden ever saw himself with an alpha.

As far as Aiden was concerned, alphas were stupid and brutish. He’d seen the best of them and the worst of them, and he wasn’t a fan. Letting one of them close enough to bite his neck would be a mistake. He’d get close enough to con them out of coin with pretty, batted eyelashes and nothing more.

Geralt might be enough to change his mind though, at least in this specific situation. Geralt was worried enough, _cared_ enough about his omega that he was seeking the help of a stranger, and for coin, no less. That at least meant it was something more than some contractual binding of a person to another like they were property. That was the part Aiden feared. Get too close to an alpha and suddenly he wouldn’t be himself, anymore.

“Are you going to help Mommy?” Emiel’s little voice rang through in the silence, and Aiden’s head jerked to the side to look at him.

“What was that, kiddo?”

“Are you going to help my mommy?” Emiel repeated, quieter. He leaned back into Geralt’s body, squeezing his stuffed bear in his arms. Aiden smiled at him, rather fondly, and that fondness did not go unnoticed.

“I’m going to try to.”

“You’re like my mommy, aren’t you?”

Aiden nodded. “Just like your mommy. Not a lot of us, so we have to stick together. You know what I can do to help him?”

Emiel shook his head and just retreated further into Geralt’s hold. Aiden smiled at him, then wiped that right off his face when he realized Geralt was staring. He cursed himself, internally. Letting Geralt catch him doing that was stupid, because at the end of the day, alphas were alphas and omegas were omegas. Aiden built his armor right back up and frowned as Geralt spoke.

“Did you ever want kids?” He asked—because that’s just what alphas _asked_ omegas when they didn’t have children.

“Why? Because I’m an omega?” Aiden spat. “I should just want kids because I can pop them out?”

“That’s not what I said.” Geralt frowned.

Aiden sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right—sorry. I— It’s not like it matters. Can’t have kids, anyway. Never wanted them.”

Geralt looked at Aiden, studying the look on his face. If there was anything there, Aiden hid it masterfully. His look was hard but empty. He revealed nothing in the hard set of his jaw or his brow. His face only softened when Geralt looked back towards their path, and even then, there was still nothing to be found. Aiden kept himself close to his chest where no one would get too close or know too much. It was easier, that way. It had been during his training, and it would work here, too.

Their expedition went by in near silence. Geralt and Aiden were too new of companions to really know what to talk about, and that same ailment spread to Emiel, too. He hadn’t had much experience with new people. Tara had worked out as a friend for no more a reason than she refused to _not_ have Emiel as a friend. He’d been dragged along for the ride. To him, Aiden was frightening simply because he was a stranger. The swords he carried on his back played little into that assessment.

They did stop about midway through near a running stream so the horses could drink, and everyone could stretch their legs. Aiden was the first one down from the horse, cracking his back and popping his stiff shoulders. Geralt stepped down after, then went straight to the bags to find something for Emiel to eat. Emiel hopped right down off the horse himself, and that caught Aiden’s attention. He smiled idly, more with his eyes than his lips.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Aiden said.

Emiel looked up at him, face flushed and smile growing. “I am?”

“Yeah.” Aiden stepped around his horse, so there wasn’t anything stopping Emiel from looking at him. “Do you know how to ride by yourself?”

Emiel shook his head. “Not yet. Daddy says Roach is too big for me.”

Aiden snorted, then looked at Geralt. “You named your horse Roach?”

Geralt didn’t respond. He plucked an apple out of Roach’s saddlebag and handed it down to Emiel, then walked around the front of Roach to guide her down to the stream.

“Daddy teach you to ride, too?” Aiden asked. He squatted in front of Emiel, just as Emiel took that first, juicy bite of his apple. Now, with a mouth full, Emiel just nodded. “What else does Daddy teach you?”

“Teach me how to fight,” Emiel said through the apple chunks. “Said I can even have a real sword.”

“Oh, that’s very nice. Real swords are harder than training swords. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Emiel nodded, taking another bite. “I can handle anything,” he said, but then, his face faltered. “Mommy used to teach me things, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Aiden sat down in front of Emiel with his legs crossed.

By the time Geralt looked back from the stream, Emiel was sitting sideways in Aiden’s lap and crunching on his apple. Aiden was happily listening to Emiel carry on about the things he was learning how to do. He could write, he could read, and he knew his signs better than anyone. And he did—for the sort of training that Geralt could give him. When Geralt was young, it hadn’t just been drawing shapes in the air; they’d had a mechanism attached at the wrist that almost forced the proper shapes out, the proper sharp angles needed to cast. It had broken the wrist of one boy, Geralt remembered.

Emiel knew the shapes, but he wasn’t perfect. He knew which shape belonged to which sign, which was as good as a starting point as anyone could hope for, but his shapes were still sloppy. He wouldn’t get any better at it, either, without the proper equipment. Geralt didn’t _have_ the proper equipment, though he was trying the best that he could. Aiden looked away from Emiel as he was demonstrating to glance over at Geralt, instead. Aiden had pieced it all together, and there was something in his eyes that Geralt couldn’t quite place.

“Mommy doesn’t teach me that no more, though,” Emiel said. “Mommy just lays in bed.”

Aiden ruffled Emiel’s hair. “Well, hopefully I can help. You’d like your mommy out of bed, I bet.”

Emiel nodded. He finished his apple, and then left the core on the ground to rot. Afterward, Geralt returned with Roach. They were there for only a moment longer as Aiden’s horse refreshed, and then they had all mounted horseback again and were off.

Upon the arrival to Geralt’s home, Aiden stopped for a moment: impressed. Geralt had mostly shared the story of how he’d come into ownership of a real piece of land; Witchers didn’t have _land_ , as far as Aiden knew, but Geralt did. It was a nice little place, and Geralt had fixed it up well. Aiden thought it looked homey, comfortable. He was almost excited, when they finally dismounted, to get the proper tour. Outside, he saw Geralt’s makeshift training dummy, the single-stalled stable that was built.

The stall was for Roach, but Aiden tied his horse up to the outside. Geralt had it built beneath a tree, so the shade was there. In the brisk air, shade wasn’t exactly required, but it gave Aiden’s horse the perfect access to water, too, that she would need. Aiden tugged off her bags only to give her the proper time to rest, but he’d only meant to leave it all on the ground. Geralt stopped him before he could just leave his stuff outside.

“Bring it in,” Geralt said. It was an invitation, and Aiden gawked for a moment.

He hoisted his stuff over his shoulder, then, and followed Geralt towards the door. It was already swung open from where Emiel had rushed inside. It was dark, already; they might have made better time if they hadn’t had to stop, but as Geralt said—fondly—Emiel got fussy if they didn’t stop. Emiel was a kid, and really, Aiden was still a kid at heart. He understood the want to get off the horse and just lay in the grass for a minute. Emiel was fidgety because he didn’t have enough stuff to do; Aiden understood. It was why, fresh out of Witcher school, he’d tried to fight an ogre.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Aiden asked, right at the threshold of the little cottage. He could see inside of it, and his heart practically swelled. From one wooden wall to the next, the space was filled with such a fondness that Aiden couldn’t fathom it. A strange omega couldn’t possibly be welcome. Geralt had practically built himself a castle, here, with his family. Aiden didn’t belong. “What if he freaks out?”

“You’re here. Least I can do is offer you a roof for the night. Come inside.”

Aiden didn’t refuse. Sleeping outside was fine and all, but the cottage looked inviting and comfortable. He stepped inside and left his things on the table where Geralt said he could. From that spot, Aiden took in the whole of the cottage. It was small, but there was still that scent of warmth that drew him in. Geralt was working on lighting the fire in the stove, and Emiel had run off into his room. He left the door open, so Aiden stepped forward and peaked inside.

Sun poked through the small window, and right beneath it was Emiel’s bed. He had fine linens and several blankets. Beside the bed was a nightstand. Emiel had a wardrobe and a chest to keep his things; there was even hooks beat into the wall where Emiel hung his sword when he wasn’t using it. With what immensity Geralt cared, there was no shock to see that Emiel had the most furnished room in the cottage. Even with nothing, Geralt was still trying to continue Emiel’s training, too.

Emiel looked happy. He’d put his things away and crawled right into bed, and once he was settled there, sitting up against his pillow, he waved Aiden in. Aiden hadn’t even taken his swords from his back, but he stepped into the room, anyway. He walked all the way to Emiel’s bedside, then sat down in the space Emiel patted. Now that Emiel was more comfortable, he was quite friendly.

“You’ve got a nice room here,” Aiden said. “Did you want something.”

Emiel folded his hands in his lap and just looked at Aiden. That look alone said enough. Aiden had promised to help Eskel, and that was all Emiel wanted. For it to actually work. That, and he was warming to Aiden quickly. His tiredness wore in the dark circles under his eyes, which Aiden was starting to believe were a family trait. Geralt looked tired. Emiel looked tired. He couldn’t wait to see how dreadfully tired Eskel looked.

“You should get to sleep,” Aiden said. “Don’t need Geralt yelling at me for disrupting the family routine, or something.”

Aiden held up the blankets as Emiel squirmed down into bed. Then, Emiel pushed himself up just long enough to unwind his medallion from his neck and rest it on the nightstand. Aiden covered him up, after, then stood. He looked at the medallion—a Wolf’s head. Aiden had a similar one in the visage of a roaring cat. Emiel was too young to have a medallion, though. Even Aiden had only just gotten his. He wondered, briefly, where it came from before pinching out Emiel’s candle and leaving.

He pulled the door shut behind him, then looked immediately to Geralt, who was chewing on some hard jerky for an evening meal while he sorted out what he needed to unpack and what he could leave where it was. Geralt looked up at the sound of the door and raised an eyebrow at Aiden’s look.

“Why does the kid have a medallion?” Aiden asked. “You said Eskel didn’t become a Witcher.”

“Not his,” Geralt said. “From another Witcher who died a long time ago. Sit down.” Geralt gestured to the seat across the table from him. Aiden walked over and took the seat, then took what meager bit of food Geralt had to offer.

Geralt told Aiden what he knew of Aubrey. Aubrey had been a Witcher, one of the older ones, that Eskel had been quite fond of when they were children. He looked forward to every winter when Aubrey would come home and share his stories, help him train. Many of the children formed bonds with the older Witchers. Reven certainly had, though it was a story for another time: Reven in his entirety. Eskel and Aubrey were friends, despite the massive age difference.

“Only one year, he didn’t come back,” Geralt said. “Another Witcher returned his things. Was there when he died. Aubrey gave it all to Eskel, and Eskel gave the medallion to Emiel.”

“I thought you said he couldn’t—”

“ _I_ gave it to Emiel,” Geralt corrected, “when he was an infant. Got whipped for it.”

“Sucks,” Aiden said. “Sucks about all of it. Don’t really know if I’m the one to help out.”

“You’re the only option I’ve got.”

Aiden grumbled to himself. “Best go talk to him now, right? Would he be asleep?”

Geralt shook his head. It wasn’t likely. Or, if it were, he would wake up instantly at the unfamiliar scent. Aiden was new, and it was entirely possible that he was unwanted. The odds were stacked against him, but Aiden was learning how good he was at gambling and batting his eyelashes. That didn’t work so well against other omegas, of course, but there was a first time for everything. He stood up from the table, removed his swords from his back, then walked around the corner to Eskel’s room.

Being as it was the only other room in the house, it had to be Eskel’s. There was also that smell that Aiden couldn’t mistake for anything. He touched the door, at first, tentative and hesitant. It smelled like lingering heat; Geralt had said that’s why they were in town, anyway. Eskel didn’t want help with his heat. He didn’t want Geralt near him, and it wasn’t something he was ready to expose Emiel to. It smelled like it had only just ended, maybe a day or two ago. The room was likely still a mess, needed to be cleaned.

Aiden sucked down a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited for a moment before he heard Eskel’s voice through the door, much deeper than he’d imagined it would be. When Aiden looked to the right, Geralt was standing there within his view. Not willing to move too far, and while Aiden might have otherwise just thought that made him a stupid, possessive alpha, maybe it might play to his advantage. If Eskel reacted badly, Geralt’s help might be greatly appreciated.

“Wish me luck,” Aiden muttered. Geralt said nothing.

Instantly, Eskel knew something was wrong. When the door opened and Aiden stepped inside, he was just confused. His eyes were wide with initial shock and confusion. He knew Aiden as quickly as Aiden knew him—an omega. But Aiden was dressed in armor, light leathers and gloves, tight pants and boots. He was boasting that Cat medallion around his neck. But almost more importantly, Aiden smelled wrong. That set Eskel off, instantly. This strange omega in his room smelled like Geralt, smelled like Emiel.

Assumptions flew. Eskel didn’t know what to think, but by scent alone his mind wandered to the horror that Geralt had brought home some omega he fucked in the city, as if Eskel would be _okay_ with that. Wouldn’t he have to be? It wasn’t like he was providing anything. Geralt had needs. Eskel knew he did. He had that look on his face nearly every time they talked: a look that Eskel couldn’t quite decide if were longing or lust. Geralt was the alpha, too. Plenty of alphas had multiple omegas.

“Hey,” Aiden said, which was already the bare opposite of what Eskel was expecting. Aiden sounded nervous. Smelled it, too. That wasn’t the scent of an omega who knew he was about to be welcomed into a new home. “You’re Eskel, right?”

Aiden pushed away from the door and made a few hesitant steps forward, towards the end of the bed.

“Geralt told me about you. Didn’t mention the—” Aiden gestured to the side of his own face, then dropped his hand down. That was probably insensitive or something. He wasn’t good at these delicate matters.

Eskel looked at him, assumptions changing by the second. Aiden did smell like Geralt, but now that he was closer, Eskel could tell it was only in passing scent. They’d been near each other, and Geralt’s smell had always been a bit domineering. Aiden was also wearing a collar. If he were in the situation Eskel had assumed, he wouldn’t need a collar. The collar protected the nape of his neck from unwanted bites, which meant he didn’t want one. Even Geralt’s.

Aiden sighed, then. “Can I just say this straight?”

Eskel nodded. He still didn’t know Aiden’s name, but he figured that would come.

“Geralt’s worried about you. You’re the only thing he knows how to talk about, first. Was a bit obnoxious—not that I didn’t like to hear it, I mean. You sound great.” Aiden walked around the side of the bed to come closer and coming closer just further confirmed Eskel’s new assumption. Aiden wasn’t here to insert himself into the family. He was just. Here. “He’s just worried. Says you don’t get out of bed anymore, that you’re falling apart at the seams—my words,” Aiden was quick to say, seeing the way Eskel’s face contorted at the statement.

“Geralt was nicer about it. He’s just worried, okay. Worried. And then he prances into Ellander and tries to take _my_ contract. We made a lot of coin, so it’s fine, but he sees me and just. Gawks. Figures I’m somehow the answer to the problem here because I’m an omega and a Witcher but—” Aiden finally just collapsed beside Eskel, sitting at the edge of the bed.

Eskel wasn’t sure what surprised him more: the fact that Aiden hadn’t asked to sit down or the fact that he wasn’t bothered by Aiden’s proximity.

“Don’t know if I can help you,” Aiden admitted. “Want to, though. If I can. It’s my first year on the Path, so I don’t know if I’m _experienced_ enough to help, but—”

“You want to,” Eskel finished. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Aiden,” he finally introduced. “From the School of the Cat.”

Eskel nodded. “Geralt wanted you to help.”

“With everything I could, anyway. He, uh—said you can’t walk,” Aiden muttered the last part.

Eskel shook his head. “I can’t. It’s not like I’ve tried, either.”

Aiden just shrugged. “Don’t really blame you.” Which caught Eskel by surprise. He looked at Aiden with the expectation of more. “There were days I was thinking about just running off, but once you pass the Grasses, not much you can do but stick around.”

When Aiden looked up, he caught Eskel’s wide-eyed look, then swallowed. “Fuck—nothing was ever that bad. Not here to tell you that you didn’t go through something bad or that it’s something that should happen, or anything—” Aiden cut off when Eskel shook his head.

“You’re nervous,” Eskel said. “You don’t have to be.”

“A little bit?” Aiden winced. “Geralt’s got a lot of expectation, and shit, wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I couldn’t do something for you.”

Something flashed in Eskel’s eyes. He realized, all at once, that he didn’t mind Aiden’s proximity because he enjoyed it. Aiden may have looked like a Witcher, already sporting a few healing scars on his arms, the armor, and the medallion, but he didn’t feel threatening. He was friendly, funny. Nervous, certainly, but he had said it was his first year out on the Path. He was young, inexperienced, and trying hard. Eskel hadn’t talked to anyone outside of Geralt or Emiel in over a year; this was like a breath of fresh air.

“You shouldn’t waste your time,” Eskel said.

Aiden shook his head. “Not a waste of time. Besides, I think I’m going to steal your kid. Might want to keep me on tight leash.”

Eskel hummed, then looked down into his lap. He twiddled with his fingers, wringing them together. What was Aiden being here going to change? He didn’t know, but he did feel content. Contentedness might be better than what he’d currently been, which was rotting in his own misery. He knew Geralt tried, but there was only so much Geralt could do. He would never understand, not in the way that another omega could. Eskel had never met another omega, and certainly not one who looked so comfortable in his own skin. So confident.

“Don’t take my kid,” Eskel muttered, then rubbed at his face. “I’m glad he likes you. He doesn’t have many friends.”

“I’d say you don’t have any,” Aiden quipped. “Maybe a good place to start? Confidant? I know a bit about a bit, you know.”

Eskel gulped. “Can I ask you a question, then?”

“Course.”

“Recently, a week or so after my heat finishes, I— _bleed_ ,” Eskel said. And then, immediately, he frowned. Aiden was gawking at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m stupid,” Eskel snapped.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Aiden waved his hands in the air. “You’re right. Geralt—well. He didn’t tell me everything, but he told me enough.”

Eskel relaxed with a sigh. Before he could apologize, Aiden waved his hand again. Then, Aiden answered Eskel’s question. It made _sense_ that he’d never experienced his first bleeding until now. Geralt had spared Aiden the details, but Aiden had pieced it together. Eskel had gotten pregnant on his first real heat, which theoretically didn’t happen often, but Eskel had delayed it for two years. That apparently had consequences. And after Emiel had been born, he spent every waking year afterward pregnant or recovering from pregnancy. There’d never been _time_.

“I’ve never heard of someone getting pregnant that quickly after giving birth but.” Aiden shrugged and scratched his cheek. “I haven’t exactly been around that long, either. Guess you were just super fertile or something.”

Eskel really tried not to gag at the thought.

“Bleeding basically means you didn’t get pregnant,” Aiden said. “Body prepares for it, or something, and then gets rid of everything when there’s no baby. Bleed it all out. That’s why there’s chunks.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Aiden nodded. “Very, but you get used to it. Got plenty of time to, I mean. My first heat happened when I was thirteen.”

“My condolences.”

“Not so bad. Definitely got a lot of shit after it, but most of those assholes didn’t survive, so what do I care? I’m the best thing the Cats have ever put out.”

Eskel snorted, but somehow, he really believed that. Aiden seemed so sure of himself it was impossible to have anything less than complete confidence in him, as well.

“How do you know all this?”

“One of the mages was an omega. She was very, very nice to me. Snuck me treats sometimes. Told me everything I needed to know, and again, not like most of it matters anymore. It’s not like they ripped out my womb or anything before the Dreams, but it’s certainly not having any kids. Bleeding stops after the Dreams, too. Real convenient, that.”

“I still have tits,” Eskel muttered.

Aiden made a strange grimacing look, followed by a noise that meant he really didn’t know. “Probably just loose,” he said. “You get up and start hitting the sword again, probably go away. Things get stretchy when they grow as often as yours did.”

Eskel’s nose scrunched up. He hated thinking about it, but Aiden was probably right. From how often and how quickly his tits grew in and receded, everything was loose and flabby. The same for his stomach, really. He was covered in stretch marks, too. Scars of a different kind, maybe, but not the scars Witchers were supposed to have.

“If you got other questions, you should ask,” Aiden said. “I’ll do my best to answer.” He stood up then, too much pep in his step. “Maybe I can help you stand up? Geralt said you don’t like when he touches you.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“Sorry—sorry. Just, let me know, alright? I can’t stick around forever. Got _some_ Witchering work to do, but. I might just be in the city, surrounding areas. Something like that.”

Eskel looked at Aiden for a long moment of just pure confused silence. “Why?” He eventually asked.

“Because omegas have it for shit out there,” Aiden said, his voice suddenly harsher than it was. “Have to be better than the best, and even then, still just regarded for my cunt. Never a question of steel, it’s a question of how good of a fuck I am. I can’t kill all the alphas, so the least I can do is help another omega _literally_ get back on his feet. Best way to fuck everyone else who said he couldn’t.” Aiden folded his arms. “Plenty of stupid alphas back in training figured I couldn’t be a Witcher because I’ve got a cunt, but they might as well have been cockless dogs for how they acted. None of them are alive, and I still am.”

Eskel was left almost in awe, really. That had been the exact attitude he’d wanted to have. Fuck the alphas who thought he couldn’t do it and fuck the ones who’d forced him to give it up. He’d lost it, though. Too broken down by his experience. He struggled to think about it, to talk about it. But maybe with more support like that, he could struggle less to let it go.

“Now, not to be a rude guest, but it really smells like you need some clean linens.”

Eskel might have laughed once, but he just hummed. “Geralt takes care of that.”

“Could help. Get it done faster. That Wolf boy of yours really looks like he needs to sleep.”

“He does,” Eskel replied, voice suddenly weaker. “He doesn’t sleep much. Too busy taking care of everything but himself.”

“Well, even better a reason to stick around then, right?” Aiden beamed, and his refusal to be put-off by the situation was nearly contagious. “I’ll go get Geralt.”

Eskel couldn’t have stopped Aiden if he tried. Aiden ducked right out the door and was back almost instantly with Geralt in tow. Geralt looked about as sheepish and tired as he always did when he came into Eskel’s room, but there was no time for it. There were things that needed to be done, and with Aiden’s help, they could be done quicker. While Geralt hoisted Eskel up into his arms, despite the way Eskel clearly flinched at the touch, Aiden stripped the bed down of its linens and quickly replaced them with a fresh set.

Once the bed was finished, Geralt set Eskel back down, then left with the dirty sheets. Aiden took care of the rest, already finding himself a place here. Eskel was almost shocked at how easily Aiden had just decided to settle in and make himself a figure. Less than a day. Less than an _hour_ , and already, Aiden was taking his time to ensure Eskel had the blankets up close enough that he could grab them and get situated. Just like that, though, Aiden was out the door.

He followed Geralt out the front of the house, then off to the left where the trail began down to the stream. The trail hadn’t been there, before, but Geralt took the same path to the water each time he went. He’d beaten the grass down and left a muddy trail when it rained, but a fine dirt one in the dry days.

“I can hear you,” Geralt grumbled back.

“That’s the point. Glad to know your ears work. Thought I could help so you could get your ass to bed, too, or is your alpha cock too big for a proper sleep?”

Geralt glared over his shoulder, but he didn’t say anything in response to that. Just: “what do you want?”

“Questions. Surely, I can ask some questions. I can help clean, too. Very good at cleaning—not that I’ve ever done it before.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Definitely.” Aiden dropped down to the riverbank right beside Geralt.

As much as Geralt would be fine working on his own, he still handed half of the laundry pile to Aiden. Geralt had himself convinced that he could do it all by himself, because any sort of doubt would break him. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He was exhausted, but as long as he kept working towards an end goal, he would be fine. After Geralt showed Aiden just what they were doing, because as it turned out, he wasn’t very good at washing his own clothes, things got along smoothly. However much he refused to admit it, Geralt was grateful.

He’d been standing close enough to the door, too, to hear most of what Aiden and Eskel had talked about. He was impressed with Aiden’s willingness, too. There was no reason for Aiden to help them out, especially not with such vigor. So far, Aiden hadn’t even asked for the crowns Geralt promised him. Seventy-five wasn’t that much, especially with everything Aiden had done so far. Eskel had been in the best mood Geralt had seen him in in months; that alone was priceless.

But then, Aiden had to ask questions.

“How far did Eskel get with the training?” He asked.

“Grasses.” Geralt didn’t feel the need to explain any further. Some part of him still wanted it to be a _fond_ memory; he and Eskel had been happy for a moment. It hadn’t been long, but it had happened.

“How old are you two?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Fuck,” Aiden muttered. “Just—wow, _fuck_. How many did he—?”

Geralt shrugged. “I lost count. Only ever cared about Emiel.”

“I mean, yeah, fuck, he’s yours. But that—” Aiden scrubbed the linens harder, trying not to think about another world where it had been _him_ in that situation. He could tell that Eskel had once been much larger, much stronger. The body he had now didn’t fit his look. Aiden was a different story. He wasn’t a twig, but his muscle had always been leaner. “Did Emiel train?”

Geralt nodded. “I’ve been trying to keep it up, best I can. Seems to me he wants to continue; he’s eager, at least.”

“What are you going to do when he hits fifteen? Don’t think you know how to run the Grasses, do you?”

Geralt frowned. “Figure I got time to figure that part out, don’t I? We _ran_ from Kaer Morhen, do you understand? We were under attack, and instead of stopping to defend my brothers, I took Eskel and Emiel, and I ran.”

“What else were you supposed to do?” Aiden frowned. “Fuck, Geralt. Not to jump any boundaries here, but if I was your omega? That’s exactly what I’d want you to do. Fuck the other Witchers. What did they deserve your defense for anyway?”

“Some of them were my _friends_ ,” Geralt spat. “Friends that I don’t know survived or not.”

“Witchers die, Geralt. It’s what we do. It’s a part of the deal.”

Geralt wanted to scream, he wanted to shout. That had cut deep; all he could remember was the look on Gweld’s face when that gate had shut behind him, and It wrecked him to the core. Gweld had been his best friend, his support for so many years, and he could be dead. Geralt thought he ought to at least know the truth of it. And he didn’t. But Aiden had a point, at the same time. His family had to come first. That’s what had happened. He saw the attack and decided his family mattered more.

“Not exactly expecting a happy reunion if I went back,” Geralt muttered. “So, no. I don’t know what to do about Emiel. Haven’t considered going back to Kaer Morhen.”

“He doesn’t _have_ to go to Kaer Morhen,” Aiden pressed. “The longer he goes without proper training, the worse time he’ll have getting back into it—you _know_ that. Bad training, bad Witcher, and then he dies because he’s not prepared. You can’t want that.”

“Why the fuck would I want that?”

“Exactly. I’m sure he’s got some fucked up insides being the product of Grasses, and all, but that doesn’t mean he can just go without the training. He doesn’t have to get the training at Kaer Morhen.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I could take him to Stygga Citadel to train—”

Geralt’s head jerked to the side, his eyes blown wide with anger he didn’t utter. He just breathed hard through his nostrils, breathed deeply. Aiden stared back at him, bordering on the edge of fear. He wasn’t afraid in a way that would have him running or shouting, but he was afraid in the way he was unfamiliar. Geralt was an unfamiliar alpha, and Aiden realized all too late that he was suggesting that this alpha lose his child.

“Do you know what I had to do to get him?” Geralt asked, quietly. There was a rumble deep in his throat that stank of something Aiden had never smelled before—distressed, upset _alpha_. “They would whip me every time they found out I’d seen him. My own _son_ , they wouldn’t let me see. They let another boy beat me black and blue because I attacked him—he thought it was _fun_ to tell me how he raped my Eskel. Years before I can do anything to help him. Years to get my own son back. And you want to take him from me?”

Aiden swallowed. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought about it like that for a second, because somewhere inside of him, he thought Geralt’s line of thought was selfish. Still, he understood it to an extent. Aiden would never understand personally. He didn’t have a child he’d worked for nearly a decade to just be able to hold. What he did understand was that Geralt was thinking more about his own desire to have his son and make up for lost time than he was thinking about Emiel’s well-being.

That was something better left unsaid, for the moment. Aiden didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out. Geralt was teetering on an edge, and the problem was simply that Aiden didn’t know how far down that edge went.

“It was just an idea, Geralt,” Aiden muttered. “Not trying to kidnap him, or anything.”

Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m doing everything I can for him.”

“You’re doing _everything_ ,” Aiden corrected, wringing out his last piece of linen. “We should get back. You have a corner I can curl up in, or would you rather I sleep outside like I’ve got the mange?”

“You’ll sleep on the floor. I get my favorite corner, though.” A half jest, as Geralt stood up. He gathered up the linens in his arms, then gestured that Aiden do the same to follow.

That meant that Geralt was also sleeping on the floor, and Aiden felt bad for him. He trailed behind Geralt as they headed back to the cottage, then stood idly as Geralt draped linen over a string inside. It was too cold still to hang things outside. They would all just freeze. Thankfully, the stove had burned the entire time they were away. It was warm enough within the cottage that Aiden didn’t even mind taking off some of his armor, though he was still dreaming about a nice plush bed and some blankets.

It was exactly the kind of bed that Eskel had, but they had just met. As sure as Aiden was that Eskel wouldn’t refuse _safe_ company, that was still pushing it. He laid a bedroll out on the floor in the corner opposite the stove. He was closer to Eskel’s door, but Geralt was closer to the stove.

“Hey, Geralt?” Aiden called out from his bedroll. He hadn’t laid down, yet. He was just sitting in a loose shirt

Geralt grunted in return.

“I’m not on a leash or anything here, am I?”

Geralt looked at him, a raised eyebrow. “Why would you be? You can come and go as you like?”

“Come back, too?”

“Of course. By the way, do you want—”

“No,” Aiden said. “I think a place to stay is worth more crown than you can give me, anyway. Appreciate it, though.” Aiden offered a weak, tired smile. He was beginning to understand why all three of them looked so exhausted. This was hard work. “Just want to know that you’re not going to hunt me down if I go back to the city for work. Been thinking about trying out a brothel, too.”

Geralt snorted. “Kid like you? What do you even know about that?”

“Oh, excuse me. I’m not some blushing virgin bride, Geralt. There was this omega who worked in the kitchens. She was a sweet girl. Taught me how to use my tongue.” Aiden stuck it out, and Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Go to bed,” he snapped in jest. “You can fuck whores in the morning.”

Aiden laughed to himself, then flopped down onto his bedroll with his hands behind his head. “There was one other omega boy at Stygga,” he said. “Didn’t make it past training, actually. Stygga’s on a mountainside, and he plummeted off the side, one day. Real tragedy, honestly. I mean, he died, and that was sad, but that boy—man.” Aiden chuckled to himself. “He knew how to work his fingers. Loved playing with him in our spare time.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re jealous,” Aiden jeered. “I can smell it, alpha boy.”

Geralt didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t _want_ to sleep around. He wanted to be able to sleep with Eskel, so until that was an option, his cock was locked up tight by the strength of his own willpower. Hopefully, it would last however long Eskel needed to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just for a show of hands would people prefer this story stay one big story or that i turn it into a series when i reach that point?


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none
> 
> posting a bit early cuz i have ERRANDS to RUn the audacity
> 
> ALSO! If you guys are enjoying this, please consider checking out my other fics or even my [tumblr](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com/). You can send in prompts and even look around for some sneaky exclusive content among other things, so feel free!

A heavy morning fog had filled the air, but Geralt had ventured out early with an axe in hand, that he might get a good start on splitting wood before the heat of the day set in. Igni may have been a free fire starter, but Geralt still needed something to burn. It had been a week since Aiden arrived, and so far, he hadn’t left. Geralt was almost glad that he hadn’t, because Aiden was helpful. He was, currently, still at the house using the last of the firewood to warm something for breakfast while Geralt went out for more.

Geralt had felled one of the larger trees in their private grove to use as a base for all of the logs he foresaw himself splitting. He preferred when the trees fell on their own. When they were dead and dry, they were easier to cut and much less difficult to carry. With winter having passed, there were plenty of specimen to choose from. He didn’t mind how long the work took, either. It was an excuse to get out of the house and have a moment to himself where his concerns could outlast coin and monster killing.

He picked a fallen tree that was relatively close to the house, then, with his axe, he set to work on chopping off the branches. The branches made good kindling, but they were often times just better left in the grass for how quickly they burned off. Geralt needed the thick logs to keep the fire going in the house.

Thoughts of what Aiden had said, originally, plagued him. Away from it all, chopping would, Geralt could give it some proper thought. Aiden was kind enough to not bring it up again, after Geralt had nearly bitten his head off for just the suggestion, but it wasn’t as if the suggestion had left. Geralt repeated it to himself every morning when he woke up, then every minute through the day afterward. He dragged his axe along the side of the tree, knocking off all of the smaller branches first.

Emiel needed proper training, and Geralt knew it. Geralt didn’t want to admit it; he didn’t want to admit a lot of things, so he wouldn’t. Not to himself, and certainly not to Aiden. Aiden had already made his opinions quite clear, and Geralt was sure that his admittance of certain feelings, instinctive or otherwise not, would not go over well. He finished shaving the small branches, then got to work chopping the larger ones off. They worked just as well for smaller logs when the fire just needed extra fuel.

He took only a moment to hesitate when he picked up on someone coming behind him, but then struck down on the tree. Being a Witcher had its perks, and one of those was the inability to be surprised. He felt Aiden approach behind him, then take a seat right on the trunk of the tree he was working with.

“Food’s ready,” Aiden said. “Emiel insisted I come out and tell you, because he thinks you haven’t eaten. Came out to tell you because I know you haven’t.”

Geralt grunted in response, another strike to the tree. The branch cleaved off, then Geralt looked back at Aiden. “Come and help.”

Aiden popped right back onto his feet and did just that. He balanced the branch, propped up over the tree, as Geralt began to strike it into smaller bits. Aiden had never had to chop his own wood before, and that was clear in how nervous he looked about the axe being so close to his hands, but Geralt struck true every time. Aiden listened to directions well, too. He did as Geralt told him, and they worked their way down the length of the trunk together until all of the branches had been cut off.

Then, while Geralt worked on chopping the base of the trunk away, roots and all, Aiden gathered up what they’d already chopped and began to stack it away from the current work-zone. He wasn’t willing to take it all the way back to the house, yet, because Geralt had come out a good minute or so walk.

“Emiel also wanted to know if he’s going to get to swing swords today,” Aiden chirped.

“Probably not,” Geralt replied, and he sounded about as regretful as he looked. “Be lucky if I’m not out here doing this all day.”

“I could—”

“No,” Geralt said, sternly, and that was that. He had no reason to distrust Aiden, save for the fact that he’d only known Aiden for two weeks, in total, and that Aiden was a Cat. Cats didn’t have the best reputation for being honest. Everything Geralt had ever been told about the Cats had read as a very large warning sign; they weren’t to be trifled with. If there was any other Witcher school to stay away from, it was the Cats, and currently, one was living at Geralt’s cottage.

“Alright, alright. I’m just saying. Eskel still hasn’t quite managed the courage to get out of bed, so I thought I could do something with my time.”

“You’re supposed to be helping Eskel.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Trying to, believe me. He’s got this thing called _trauma_. You know, makes it hard to do things. Maybe you should look it up.”

Geralt sighed, but he had no real desire to lodge his axe in Aiden’s throat. He bore it down on the tree trunk, instead. He understood, at least partially. Eskel had been bedridden for years, forced there by chains and too much pain to have managed to stand, otherwise. It would make sense that he couldn’t get up, now. Being bedridden wasn’t good for him, but it was a devil he knew and could deal with. Facing the world again was entirely different, especially now that he knew how the world looked at omegas.

Eskel hadn’t been ashamed of himself until the Wolves had _made_ him ashamed. That shame was longer lasting than Geralt had thought. He’d thought, in all of his foolish idealism, that being out of that room and away from Kaer Morhen would have changed something. Here they were, their second year out on their own, and Eskel was no better off. Aiden had given him a friend, at least, but Aiden wasn’t exactly forcing him up onto his feet. Rightfully so, too. Geralt wouldn’t have wanted that.

“You are a masterful brooder,” Aiden said.

“I’m working,” Geralt replied.

“You’re _always_ working. Could try talking, or something. Eskel’s eating, so I’m not about to drag him out of bed. Could talk to me. I’m a handsome listener.”

“All you ever seem to do is talk.”

“That’s because you never talk, so it seems like I do all of it.” Aiden snorted, then laughed to himself. Geralt hated how he found Aiden’s particular brand of humor to be _charming_. He was a bit rude, but it was clear that he held no malice.

“There’s a lot going on,” Geralt tried to explain. “Don’t think you would understand.”

“Of course not. You’re about the only Witcher in existence who has a family. Makes it real hard to understand. Nobody’s ever had a family before.” Aiden rolled his eyes. He grabbed up more wood as Geralt splintered it and it fell onto the ground.

“You really just like to get on my nerves, don’t you?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, and finally took a break.

“Yes, because maybe then you’ll see how stupid some of your shit is. As an outsider, I have full rights to point it out. Not wrapped up in all this bias crap.”

Geralt sighed. “What do you suggest then, oh outsider?”

“Let me take Emiel to Stygga,” Aiden said, pointedly, as if the last time hadn’t gotten his head nearly bitten off. “He gets the Witcher training he needs, and _you_ get some time to do what you need, too. Going to kill yourself like this, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he pulled the next chopped log right up onto his stump base and got to hacking at it. Aiden sat down on his stack of wood and just sighed. He watched Geralt and saw it plainly as a flex of some alpha superiority, even if that’s not what Geralt intended. Geralt had that look about him that Aiden had seen the _last_ time he’d openly challenged an alpha. It was some cross between a petulant child who knew exactly what he was doing and an instinctual shame that Geralt may not have realized he was feeling.

“Do you still want help?” Aiden asked.

“Go back inside. Sure they’re done eating by now.”

Aiden popped off his pile of wood and gave Geralt a half-hearted salute. Then, he made his way back towards the cottage. He could hear the echo of wood-chopping as he walked off, but he didn’t glance back. If Geralt needed to sort himself out by cutting wood, then that was a better alternative to what he _could_ do. There were a lot of things Geralt could do that the world wouldn’t frown upon him for, and so far, he had opted to do exactly none of them. Eskel would never find a safer place to be, and Aiden was at least glad for that. It meant he was safe, too.

On his way back to the house, Aiden tied up half of his hair into a small tail to keep it out of his face. The rest of it hung idly around his shoulders. When he entered the cottage, door closed tightly behind him, Emiel was sitting at the table still picking at his meal. Aiden had been gone for an hour, as far as he could figure. Emiel should be done by now, off doing _something_ that children did. But he wasn’t. He only perked up slightly at the sound of the door, as Aiden tracked across the room to see him.

“Food no good?” Aiden asked.

“Is good,” Emiel said. “Just tired.”

Aiden sat down at the table across from Emiel, leaning over onto his elbows. “Tell me about it, kiddo. Can I help?”

Emiel shrugged. “You and Daddy fight,” he said, “and Mommy barely talks to me.”

Aiden gave a sideways grin. “Your daddy and I fight because he wants to do everything by himself. Got that big dumb alpha thing where he thinks if he just works hard enough, he can do it all. I tell him he can’t make you a Witcher, and he’s mad that he can’t.”

At that, Emiel perked up. “I want to be a Witcher,” he said.

“Well, let’s see what I can do about that, okay? You already have a Wolf medallion, so I think you should get a different medallion, next.”

“Like yours?”

Aiden nodded. “Exactly like mine. I’m from the School of the Cat. Your daddy is from the School of the Wolf. You would have been a Wolf, but Cats are better.”

Emiel even laughed, then, and finally swallowed down a hefty gulp of his morning gruel.

“Want me to talk to your mommy? See what he thinks?”

Emiel nodded. “Yes,” he said. Then, he went back to eating in silence.

With that, Aiden took his leave. He didn’t mind being some sort of mediator. This family clearly needed it. He didn’t know what exactly had happened in the year they’d been out here, but he could smell the tension as well as he could see it. Eskel and Geralt didn’t know how to exist around each other, anymore, and Eskel seemed almost _afraid_ of Emiel. Like he might hurt him or otherwise cause some sort of harm just by being in the same space. Emiel was clearly just a boy in need of his mother, and there wasn’t a Witcher on the continent that couldn’t relate to that.

Aiden went for Eskel’s room. He knocked, once, just to say that he was coming in, and then went in before Eskel could respond. That had just become their routine. It was how Eskel knew who was knocking. Geralt knocked twice and always waited. Emiel didn’t knock at all, but he also had stopped visiting after Eskel had handed off all of his duties to Geralt. Aiden knocked once and didn’t bother waiting, because his presence didn’t put Eskel on edge. There was no reason to wait.

“Morning, again,” Aiden said. He walked up to the side of the bed and then frowned. “Why does no one in this house know how to eat?” He asked. “Eat!”

Eskel looked at him, then down at the bowl. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“God, you’re all children.” Aiden collapsed down on the side of the bed, then sighed. He took the bowl when Eskel handed it to him, then set it over on the nightstand. He took one very deep breath, then met Eskel’s eyes. “Can we talk about something?”

Eskel nodded. “You’re always welcome to talk.” He wrung his hands together. “I like to listen.”

“About Emiel—talked to Geralt about it, and he doesn’t seem too keen on the idea, so I thought I’d try you. Classic if Dad says no, then ask Mom.”

Eskel _should_ have laughed, but he didn’t. He just stared at Aiden.

“You two need to fucking talk, gods.” Aiden sighed. “Emiel needs to get the final say in this, but he _wants_ to be a Witcher, Eskel. He can’t do that here, and you know it. He can’t go back to Kaer Morhen, which means another school is the only option. I happen to _be_ from another school.”

Eskel gulped. “The School of the Cat,” he said, because he knew. “Emiel doesn’t need to learn how to become an assassin.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “The prejudice, I swear. Whatever he learns there and chooses to do is his own choice. They don’t force Cats to go off and kill people for a living; anyone who told you that is stupid. They _do_ , however, administer the trials. Can you two do that?”

“Of course, not.”

“So, why is another school such a bad option? If it makes you feel any better, we’re not going to throw him back into isolation.”

“Geralt should be here for this,” Eskel said. “Like you said, Emiel has the final say.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aiden folded his arms. “We’ll all have a big family chat about it later, then. Get together all my sources on why it’s not such an awful idea, and then you two have to agree. Anyway.” The topic died there, because Aiden could see Eskel’s growing stress as well as he could smell it. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Eskel replied. “Been thinking.”

Aiden waited patiently for Eskel to continue with just what he’d been thinking about.

“Can you help me sit on the side of the bed?” Eskel’s gaze fell away as he asked. He was ashamed to ask, and he was even more incapable of looking at the way Aiden brightened at the question.

Instantly, Aiden was off the bed and pulling down Eskel’s covers. He did it slowly, at least, as to not make the cold morning air too much of a shock. Eskel still shivered and was overcome by goosebumps. He was already sitting up, so this couldn’t possibly be too hard, save for the fact that Eskel could hardly move his legs. He’d gotten back some of his strength in the year away from Kaer Morhen, but it would never attribute to the pure lack of musculature he was facing. He hadn’t been out of a bed in far too long. He could move them, slightly, but they’d never be able to hold him up.

“Give me your arms,” Aiden said.

He and Eskel locked arms, and it was clear that Eskel’s strength waned in the way he gripped. Aiden’s grip must have hurt, because he had to make up for how weekly Eskel could hold on. With an established hold, he helped Eskel shift to the side of the bed. Aiden tried to keep his face as neutral as possible, too; Eskel had enough shame for the both of them in the way he had to wriggle to the side of the bed. Eventually, he made it, and his legs flopped down off the side.

This was the closest Eskel had been to standing in years, and it made him nervous. He wanted to just be able to get up and go, but he knew this was going to be a process. Getting up to stand was going to be hard enough, and then he was going to have to learn how to walk, then run. He would need to relearn how to ride a horse, too. It was a lot, and he thought about it all at once. He’d lost so much time. There’d be no way to make it back. If he couldn’t stand up right now, he’d never be able to. He was going to spend the rest of his life in this bed, rotting away until Geralt finally got tired of him.

“Hey, hey—” Aiden’s voice rang out, and the hard squeeze of his fingers brought Eskel back. “What’s going on? Breathe, Eskel.”

Eskel shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Fine.”

Eskel was clearly not fine, but Aiden didn’t press. He just kept his hold firm and grounding, to help Eskel stay in the moment. Aiden didn’t know where he went when he wasn’t here, but he had seen Eskel leave enough times to know it was nowhere pleasant.

“Do you want to try standing?” Aiden asked. “Won’t let you fall, if you do. Just lean on me.”

Somewhere in Eskel’s eyes, there was doubt. By now, he knew that Aiden was only eighteen years old. A Witcher, he was, but that didn’t mean Eskel trusted he would be able to support the both of them. Mostly because Eskel was expecting that he would fall flat on his face and make a fool of himself. How Aiden already didn’t think him a fool was shocking.

“Just—pull me up,” Eskel said. “I don’t know if I can get up.”

“Got you. I’ve got you,” Aiden promised.

They had to work together. Aiden wasn’t going to do all the work for Eskel. That wasn’t the point of this. Eskel needed to learn how to get onto his own feet again _on his own_. He wanted to. He wanted to so badly that he was afraid of what it would mean if he couldn’t. And how long would it take until he was able to stand up on his own? Until he was able to get _up_ on his own? He tried not to think about it, but it was so easy to lose himself as the thoughts just trickled in.

He pushed, using Aiden’s arms for support. He rocked forward, making sure his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Aiden didn’t help, because he couldn’t. He offered the support Eskel needed, and once Eskel had finally gotten himself off the bed, Aiden was like a rock. He stood firm and got Eskel the rest of the way, never one wavering under the weight Eskel put on him. It was all of it. Eskel couldn’t rest even a single _ounce_ of himself on his legs, not without his knees giving out.

But he did it. Eskel was standing there, his legs shaking nearly uncontrollably, but he was standing. _Standing_. He didn’t know how he’d done it, how he was _still_ doing it, but he was. He was standing. He could hear Aiden’s overjoyed laughing, see his smile.

“Look at that!” Aiden cheered. “Knew you could do it.”

“I need to—”

“Yes, yeah. Right.” Aiden helped him sit back down almost immediately. Aiden was still grinning widely, but Eskel felt the rush of excitement die immediately. He dropped his face in his hands and heaved something heavy. “Eskel?” Aiden sounded worried.

“Couldn’t do it,” Eskel muttered. “ _Fuck_ , I thought I’d be able to do more. Am I ever going to be able to walk again? What if I can’t? Can’t do anything already, but knowing for _sure_ that I’ll be useless forever? How could Geralt still want me after that?”

Aiden frowned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re an idiot.”

Eskel’s eyes went wide.

“How long has it been since you walked? Did you really think you were just sitting in bed crying because that’s what you were choosing to do?”

“Well—”

“Really?!” Aiden gawked. “Melitele’s _tits_ , Eskel! You _can_ _’t_ walk. You haven’t been out of a bed in almost a decade. You were never going to be able to just get out of bed and walk. That’s now how this works. You have to start at the bottom. Learn to stand on your own, and then we can start with the walking.”

Eskel looked at him, hard. He was looking for anything he could use against himself, but Aiden wouldn’t let him. Aiden was looking at him firmly, but with some softness in his eyes that said he would be here through all of it. Eskel needed help, and he needed to not beat himself up every time things didn’t go the way he hoped they would.

“Gonna take a lot of time,” Aiden assured. “You went through some shit, Eskel. I mean— _fuck_ , you went through some shit. You don’t get over that in a day.”

“I understand,” Eskel muttered. He was trying so hard to feel bad about himself that he’d honestly forgotten to give himself a bit of kindness. He wasn’t in this bed because he chose to be. He was in this bed because the only alternative was being carried out to sit in a chair, and the bed was more comfortable. This wasn’t a choice. This was the consequence of abuse. He was starting to recover. Maybe. He hoped he was, anyway.

“Do you want to try again? The more we work on it, the better you’ll get. Soon, you’ll be standing on your own. Just here to make sure you don’t fall.”

Eskel sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s try again,” he said, “until I get tired.”

“As much as you want. We can do this all day, alright?”

Eskel was ready to spend all day doing it. He didn’t know if he could, but even just a few more times might be enough to convince him that he _could_. He thought all he needed was the push, but Aiden hadn’t pushed him once. Aiden had just been there when he finally had the urge, and that meant more to Eskel than anything else could have. If Aiden had forced him to, he feared he may have chosen to never walk again. But here, like this, he could lean on Aiden’s forearms as he got _himself_ out of bed.

He didn’t know how long it would take for him to be able to actually stand on his own, but each time he did this—got up—he would get stronger. His legs would get stronger because they had to. If he couldn’t get any better, he didn’t know how he was going to live with himself. He wanted to take care of his child. Part of him even wanted to take care of his alpha, and he’d never manage that if he couldn’t just recover. As far as he was concerned, recovery began with standing.

Witchers had impossible stamina, but Geralt was running on the last few turns of a waterwheel. He hardly slept; he hardly ate. The only thing he did was work. He woke up early to ensure the cottage was stocked; he trained and taught Emiel; he went into town as both a traveler and a Witcher for supplies and coin. By the time he was finished with the wood cutting and taking Emiel out for swordplay, Geralt still had time to cook something for an evening meal, but energy for nothing more.

Aiden had his suspicions about _why_ Geralt was so intent on doing it all, and why he was even more adamant that he do it all on his own. He only let Aiden help in specific situations. There was no proof that he was running on some alpha-made instinct, though, so Aiden tried to keep his judgments to himself. It was difficult not to, but if Geralt was relying on an innate instinct to guide him, then it just proved he was too exhausted to think clearly.

Geralt didn’t agree for a proper talk for an entire, additional week. Even then, it was only after the sun had gone down and he was sure Emiel was fast asleep that Geralt decided they could talk. It was dark, and Aiden would have preferred to be asleep, but he followed Geralt into Eskel’s room and ensured the door was closed tight behind them. Eskel was exhausted, too. They’d spent all day working on sitting up, standing, sitting back down. Eskel could only do it for so long, but the exhaustion lasted the rest of the day.

“Feel like we’re about to enter some secret cult meeting.” Aiden snorted. “Do we need code names for breaking into the town?”

“Of course,” Geralt agreed. “Call you _brat_.”

“Ouch.” Aiden took a seat at the end of Eskel’s bed. “That’s rough, Geralt.”

“We’re all accounted and present, brat,” Geralt continued, leaning up against the wall as far from Eskel as he could. “I believe you had a presentation.”

“Oh, he’s making jokes.” Aiden scoffed, looking back to Eskel, who had nothing to offer. “Jokes, man. Alright. Melitele’s tits, let’s go.”

Aiden stood up again and straightened out his shirt. All of his armor was still sitting out in the main room, heaped in a pile because he couldn’t be bothered to neaten it up. He had Geralt’s attention, and he had Eskel’s. It was his job to make his case as best he could; all he had a mind for was what was best for Emiel and staying here wasn’t it.

“Stygga is a trip, first of all,” Aiden started. “It’s all the way down in Ebbing, nestled all cute like in the mountains. Why I am so far north? This is where they sent me. I need to start making my way back when the first chill hits. I want to take Emiel with me.”

“That’s a long trip,” Eskel said, and it was clear that was his first reservation. Emiel would be a lifetime away, and after the several lifetimes Eskel lived trying to get him back, knowing that he wouldn’t be in the next room was a terrifying, paralyzing thought.

“He’d be safe, though. I’d stay there with him through the winter and help him settle in. He’d get started in the spring with whatever class he fit in with.” Aiden shrugged. “Proof enough right here that they don’t discriminate. No promises that it won’t suck if he’s an omega, but he’s not gonna—” Aiden just gestured to Eskel.

“He’s not,” came Eskel’s quiet mutter.

“Ah, yeah. Guess that’s pretty easy to tell, isn’t it? Well, if he goes alpha, then he’s fucking set for life. Nothing to worry about.”

That idea didn’t seem to soothe Eskel either. He had a hard-enough time being around Geralt. What would he do if his own son were an alpha? It felt a bit like betrayal, just the thought that it was possible.

“Training’s not easy, but I’m sure you knew that. He’s already got a head start, I think.” Aiden said that to Geralt. “Been keeping up the best you can, but you can only go so far. He’ll need the Grasses, and he’ll need the Dreams. Don’t know how you Wolves did it, but the Dreams at Stygga is this huge festival. Like a party we get up to every year. Huge preparation, lots of good drinks. The trainees take a nap and the rest of them party.”

That certainly was different. Geralt remembered going through the Dreams. He remembered being alone and terrified and seeing things that he couldn’t cope with. He’d been through that on his own. By himself. Aiden was saying that the Cats went through it together, that they had some sense of community. That would be good for Emiel, and Geralt knew that. But at the same time, he worried what it would mean for Emiel—he was a shy boy, and while that could be easily worked out of him, it meant taking him away from everything that he knew—including Tara.

“What else are you going to do?” Aiden continued, suddenly more desperate than ever with only a response of contemplative silence. “If he doesn’t become a Witcher—with two Witcher parents—what happens? Hate to be the one to say it, but he outgrows both of you, and he fucking dies. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Geralt snapped.

“Then why continue to argue for the inevitable? He _needs_ a school. Take him back to Kaer Morhen, if you think that’s a better idea, but leaving him out here is just selfish.”

“Kaer Morhen is not an option,” Eskel interjected. “Geralt, _please_ , he can’t go back there.”

“He won’t,” Geralt assured. Then, he turned back to Aiden. “It’s not _selfish_ to keep him here. You may not understand because you don’t have a child, but—”

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Aiden bit, folding his arms. “I get it. You two worked so hard to get him back after he was taken from you, but who the fuck is the subject of that sentence? _You two_. You’re keeping yourself happy because you don’t want to lose him again.”

“He wouldn’t want to leave, either!”

“How do you know? He wants to be a Witcher! I asked him, myself!” Aiden argued. “If that means traveling, then how do we _know_ he wouldn’t want to? It’s not like you’d never fucking see him again.”

“Emiel could die.”

“Or he could be the best damn Witcher the world has ever seen and live a great long life. Don’t give up the good just because there’s a chance bad can happen! You weren’t thinking like that when you _fucked_ —” Aiden stopped himself right there, then squeezed his arms around himself tighter. He heard the hitch in Eskel’s breath, and he watched how Geralt deflated. That was too much.

“I’m sorry,” Aiden continued. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Emiel needs a school. Know you two want to keep him here because you love him, but he _needs_ this. You don’t like the Cats, then fine, but where else do you go? Do you have time to hunt down a Viper or a Griffon right now?” Aiden shook his head. “I’m here. Right now. Take him down to Stygga in the winter, and he’ll be back before you know it.”

“We should consider it,” Eskel muttered, then wrapped himself up in his arms. “I couldn’t finish training. Doesn’t mean Emiel shouldn’t be able to.”

Geralt didn’t have anything to say. He groaned, growled, and ran his fingers back through his hair. He left the room right after, which left only a split second for Aiden to turn back to Eskel and just gawk. Geralt had _left_? What sort of a response was that? The same question wore on Eskel’s face, though he looked twice as broken up about it. Already feeling as if he wasn’t good enough, seeing Geralt walk off like that did nothing but exacerbate Eskel’s thoughts.

Aiden didn’t even ask before he ran from the room and after Geralt. The only one who could fix what Geralt had just done was Geralt. The only way that happened was if Aiden went after him. He followed Geralt’s scent out the front door, then over to the stable where Geralt was busying himself with a brush at Roach’s coat. Aiden hurried right over, rubbing at his own arms in attempt to find some warmth. Being out this late was stupid, even in Ellander. Spring still had her moments.

“Geralt,” Aiden called out. “Geralt, what are you doing?”

“Not listening to you, clearly,” Geralt responded. “Roach is better company.”

Aiden sucked down a deep breath. “What’s the problem? Stop talking to your horse and start talking to someone who can respond.”

“The point is she doesn’t talk much.”

Aiden snorted. “I get it. I do. But you need someone to talk, so start.”

Geralt sighed and set down the brush. He leaned back against the wall of the stable stall and just sighed again. He didn’t know how to explain it, but he had to find a way. It was this instinctive need to _provide_ , and Aiden had shown up with every word in the book to tell him how he wasn’t providing anything for his family. Geralt had tried fora year to get Eskel out of bed, and Eskel had refused at every corner. Aiden shows up and, just like that, Eskel is working on standing up.

No matter how hard he tried, Geralt could never give Emiel the kind of training he deserved. He couldn’t give Eskel the attention he needed, either, because it was clear Eskel wanted nothing to do with him. Emiel was caught between whatever it was they were facing, and it wasn’t fair. Still, Geralt wanted to be able to take care of them. Sending Emiel off to Cat Camp just proved that Geralt couldn’t take care of him, because it meant that the only way he could do what he should be able to do—as an alpha, a father, a partner—was if he only had to deal with one thing at a time.

He couldn’t take care of Emiel without abandoning Eskel. He couldn’t take care of Eskel without sending Emiel away. He couldn’t be a Witcher without getting rid of both of them. There was always a trade-off. He _should_ be able to do it all, but every single day was another drop of evidence that he was failing. He didn’t want to fail. That was something he at least thought Aiden could understand, but as he finished baring his soul to the space between them, Aiden snorted.

“Stop thinking with your knot for a fucking second and think with your head,” Aiden bit out. “You have a kid at fifteen and suddenly think your dad of the year? That’s not how this works. You’re not failing because you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, first of all. Second, you and Eskel are tripping over yourselves, and it’s so stupid. Both trying so hard to make sure you think you’re useless to the other one. I get the grand privilege of knowing this because I’m the only one who knows how to talk.

“Sending Emiel off doesn’t mean your failing, either. He’s a _kid_ —he needs the kind of one-on-one attention he can only get from having two parents, and one of his parents needs one-on-one attention, too. A shit situation you got yourself into, Geralt, but it’s not your fault, and it doesn’t mean your failing. So, stop thinking like a fucking alpha with a cock too big for his own head to function and start thinking like all those things you want to be. A father, a partner— _whatever_ works for you, Geralt. But drop the knot and cut the crap.”

Geralt looked at him and blinked.

“Sending Emiel away is doing what’s best for him, and you know it. Keeping him here just fucks it up, worse. Longer he goes without proper training, the worse a Witcher he’s going to make. I got faith that he’ll pass the Trials. Why don’t you?”

Geralt breathed deeply. He breathed for such a long moment that Aiden wasn’t sure he was going to respond, but then Geralt was looking at him. Geralt’s hair was getting longer, and he was starting to grow in a beard. He fit the look of the ragged mountain man who didn’t need help with anything, but he had a very specific set of circumstances.

“I come back in the spring,” Aiden continued. “Without Emiel, you have less to worry about. I come back, and we take turns out there in the Path. Someone’s always here to watch Eskel, that way.”

“What do you get out of this?” Geralt asked, brows set in a serious line.

Aiden breathed. “Personal satisfaction, if you’re willing to believe it.” He took a step forward. “School of the Cat was no easy stroll through the woods, Geralt. Every _single_ day was a struggle. Knew I was going to be an omega from the second someone told me what a cunt was, but nothing hit until thirteen. At thirteen, _everybody_ knew. Sure, they didn’t tie me up in a room and force me to have babies, but they knew. Treated me different. Plenty of them tried to get their hands on me.”

Geralt didn’t try to mask his shock, nor his pity. Aiden didn’t want either.

“Would have been real easy for me to end up in a situation like Eskel, I think, and that just doesn’t sit right. Maybe I can’t change what happened any better than you can, but if I can help make it right, then you best believe I’m going to.”

“I do believe that,” Geralt assured. He stepped out of the stable and up to Aiden, where he put a hand on Aiden’s shoulder and squeezed. “You want what’s best for him. Want what’s best for Emiel, too, and even me.” Geralt said it with no hesitation, because he knew it was true. Aiden wasn’t here to rip them apart or to tell Geralt he was useless and a failure. All he wanted was to help, and Geralt had been the one to ask him for that help.

“You’ll take him to Stygga in the autumn,” Geralt said.

“Shouldn’t we talk to Emiel first?”

Geralt nodded. “Of course. We’ll talk to him in the morning. Someone’s going to have to convince him to leave his stuffed toys behind.”

Aiden snorted. “Right, right. Only stuffed cats allowed at Stygga. No bears.”

Geralt cracked a smile and squeezed Aiden’s shoulder again. He knew that this was the right thing to do. All he’d needed to see that was Aiden to say some rough words here and there. It’d worked, however harsh it was. Aiden held no malice towards them.

Geralt and Aiden sat down with Emiel at the table come morning time. Emiel had his morning meal sitting out in front of him, but he was a smart enough boy to know that something was going on. He didn’t touch it when it was served to him, just sat there swinging his legs beneath the table as Geralt and Aiden sat with him. Neither of them had any food, which meant it wasn’t just a friendly, communal meal. This was a real talk, and he didn’t need to be choking on any food in the meantime.

“Got a question for you, kiddo,” Aiden started, because Geralt didn’t know how to bridge the conversation of Emiel leaving for the next ten years of his life.

Emiel hummed in response.

“You said you still wanted to be a Witcher, didn’t you?” Emiel nodded. “How about becoming a Cat, hm? Like me?”

Emiel grinned, then, and looked to Geralt who sat beside him. “I can be a Cat?”

Geralt nodded. “You could be. Aiden is willing to take you down to the School of the Cat so you can learn. Would you like that?”

Then, Emiel’s face faltered. “Take?”

“It’s a long way south,” Aiden chimed in, again. “I’d go with you, though. Stay the whole winter with you so you would be comfortable.”

“I’d be away from everyone.”

Aiden nodded. “You would be, but just until you were an official Cat. Then, you could travel the whole world. Come right back here if you wanted to. You have very unique circumstances. Don’t think they’d make you come back.”

Emiel wrung his fingers together for a moment, looking down into his bowl of oats. His ankles were crossed, and his nose was scrunched like he was thinking all of it over. It was a lot to ask of him, almost as much as it was to ask of Eskel and Geralt. They were sending their only son away as much as Emiel was leaving behind the only family he had.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Aiden said, suddenly. “You don’t even have to go this year, if you don’t want to, but you’ll need to go soon. Okay?”

“Wanna go,” Emiel said. “Wanna be a Witcher.”

Aiden smiled, then. Geralt even managed one, himself. He leaned over and wrapped his arm around Emiel’s shoulder, pulling him close and kissing his temple. Emiel squealed at the attention, trying to wriggle out of Geralt’s affection. But, in the end, Geralt won out and got a tight hug around his chest, or what parts Emiel could reach. Geralt was too big for a proper squeeze.

“We won’t leave until the fall,” Aiden told him. “You have plenty of time to stay goodbye, alright? No need to worry about this until it starts to get cold again, and it’ll get warm first.”

“When can we go to town?” Emiel looked at Geralt again. “Daddy, I have to tell Tara I’m leaving. I won’t tell her where, I promise, but I have to tell her!”

Geralt ruffled Emiel’s hair. “We’ll go soon,” Geralt promised. “We’ll go in the summer like we always do, okay?”

Emiel nodded. “I want to see Tara.”

“I know you do.”

Then, Geralt looked to Aiden, who was wearing a strange look on his face. He’d met them on their last visit to town, and they’d been there for a week. Now, Geralt was planning another visit of the same kind for the summer. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, not with the smells of heat still obvious when Aiden had met Eskel for the first time. They were leaving again so Eskel could go through a heat. Alone. With the memories that he had.

Aiden pushed himself up from the table, immediately, and Geralt followed after him after a brief moment to refocus Emiel on his breakfast. Aiden didn’t go far, just right outside the front door so they wouldn’t be heard. Geralt stepped outside after him, and saw Aiden leaned up against the logs of the cottage.

“Just not a question to be asked in front of the little one,” Aiden said. “How angry alpha would you turn if I offered to help Eskel with his heats?”

Geralt’s brows shot up. “What?”

“Oh, please. Plenty of omegas _play_ together. Pretty sure rich alphas spend life savings on getting more omegas so they can watch them try to fuck each other through heats. Not exactly ideal, but I can’t imagine that Eskel’s are easy. Not with his—”

“He’s the one who asked me to leave.”

“I’m not an alpha,” Aiden said, like it was obvious. “He won’t be terrified of me. Promise. Just asking if that’s something _you_ _’d_ be okay with. He’s your mate. I’m not asking to fuck him—told you I wasn’t fucking your omega. But company, at least.”

Geralt nodded without hesitation. “If Eskel wants your company and your help, then you do whatever he needs. Clearly, I can’t give him anything.”

Aiden reached out to pat Geralt on the shoulder. “There we go. That’s how we think with our heads and not our knots.”

Geralt snorted. “You don’t even have one.”

“Don’t even have balls, either.” Aiden laughed. “Somehow, I’m the one making the tough decisions. Anyway. I’ll talk to Eskel about it. See what he says next time we practice standing.”

“Is he getting any better?”

Aiden nodded. Eskel was getting better every day. Walking wouldn’t remove his fear of alphas, but it would be something to separate him from where he’d been. Maybe having someone with him for a heat would be a good step, too. A nice reminder that heats weren’t awful—they were _fun_. Aiden spent most of his time chugging down potions to keep them away, simply because they were hard to deal with in his particular profession. Eskel wouldn’t be able to set something off that he’d spent so much careful time repressing, so it was the perfect plan.

Eventually, Aiden thought it might even lead to Geralt being back in the room with Eskel, and that would just fix an entire world of problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also Jan 22nd was Emiel's birthday for anyone who remembered that obscure detail :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: none
> 
> shoutout to all you guys who keep commenting every chapter. i LOVe getting to hear your thoughts about things <3
> 
> i hope everyone enjoys the new installment

When the cold started to set in, Geralt presented Emiel with his very own satchel. He and Aiden would be leaving at the end of the week, and Emiel needed to start planning what he would bring. Aiden would have been the rightful choice to sit down and help him rifle through his things, but Aiden also didn’t have the tact to gently tell Emiel he couldn’t bring his favorite stuffed toy. Emiel was a _child_ , first and foremost, and he was missing nearly two years of training. He’d gotten to be a normal kid for a moment, and that would make a transition back more difficult than strictly necessary.

Geralt sat down on the floor of Emiel’s room while Aiden prepared elsewhere; they could take whatever supplies they needed from the house in order to make the journey, including coin. It would be a long, long journey back down to Stygga Citadel. They would be lucky to get there before it started to snow, but Aiden was taking care of all of that. He knew to account for snow, and Emiel just knew he was going away. For an extremely long time.

“Need to think about what clothes to take,” Geralt said. “You’re going back to training. Remember what that was like?”

Emiel nodded, but he had his teddy bear held up against his chest, resting his chin on its stuffed head.

“It’ll be hard, but this was what you said you wanted. Aiden will be with you the whole winter.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

Geralt sighed, resting his head in his hand. “Sweetheart, if you don’t like it, then Aiden can bring you right back. Don’t want to be a Witcher? No one will force you. Think you’ll like it, though. You like training with me.”

“Like training with Daddy,” Emiel parroted, muttering into his teddy’s fur.

“Can’t go with you, though. You’ll be with Aiden. Come here.” Geralt reached out, and Emiel scooted across the floor until Geralt could pick him up and plant him sideways in his lap. “Aiden will take good care of you. So will the Cats.”

“Didn’t even _like_ Cats until Aiden came here,” Emiel mumbled.

Geralt stroked back through his wild hair. “Aiden proved me wrong. You like Aiden, don’t you?”

Emiel nodded.

“Nothing to worry about, then. You’ll make friends with the other boys. Do you want to start packing?”

Emiel sighed. He didn’t squirm out of Geralt’s lap, rather, just into his chest. He’d been so excited about it when the offer came, but now that it was actually happening, he had his reservations. He _remembered_ what it was like to train, and it wasn’t the training he hated. It was being so far away from his parents. The boys old enough to remember had talked about their parents. The ones that sold them off or died to leave them orphaned. Some of the stories had even been nice.

Even if Emiel’s story wouldn’t be nice, he still had wanted one. He didn’t know anything about his parents while he was at Kaer Morhen. The only reason he knew Eskel was because it was almost impossible for a pup not to know his own mother. Geralt, he’d known later, but now that he did, he didn’t want to lose it. That was what kept him in Geralt’s lap and away from his brand new satchel. He could easily stuff clothes and his brush in there, but he couldn’t take his parents.

“What if I forget you again?” Emiel muttered, his face half-buried in Geralt’s chest.

Suddenly, Geralt was holding him tighter. “You’re not going to forget us, promise. While you’re gone, gonna work with Mommy and get him up and walking. Have something to look forward to when you’re all finished.”

Emiel sniffed and rubbed at his nose. He would be gone for a long time, and he knew that. Many a night Geralt had sat down with him to work on Witcher training, however light a version it was. Geralt had mounds and mounds of notes stashed in the storage chest from where he had spent countless hours writing down bestiary entries that he remembered, along with alchemical potions and formulas. Along with those, he’d ensured to tell Emiel exactly how things would be. He knew the Grasses happened at fifteen, and the Dreams happened at eighteen.

Assuming that every Cat left Stygga Citadel at eighteen, Emiel was looking at ten _years_ away from Geralt and Eskel. Away from Tara. Away from the life that he’d come to know and love. That was a lot, no matter how much he wanted to be a Witcher.

“Want me to send Mommy’s cloak with you?” Geralt asked.

Emiel shook his head. “You need it,” he muttered. “Have my medallion.”

Geralt smiled. “Yes, you do. You can take that with you, but the bear has to stay.” Geralt took the bear, and Emiel didn’t try to keep it. He wrapped his arms around himself instead and huffed. He was giving up his toys, and it was like he’d only just gotten them. By the time he came back from Stygga, he’d be an _adult_. No time to play with toys, after that.

If Geralt could do it all over again, he would change everything. He loved Emiel, would give the entire world for him, but this wasn’t the life he would have given a son if he had a choice. Not after he’d seen what he’d seen. This was all he knew, so it was the only thing he had to give. It meant Emiel would never have a normal childhood. He would spend his years training away and hopefully surviving until he could walk the Path. At that point, he may as well be Geralt’s friend or companion more than his son. Though, that was the inevitability Geralt hoped to never face.

He held Emiel a little tighter and kissed the top of his head. “You’ll be alright, Emmie. Wouldn’t send you down there if you wouldn’t be, alright?”

Emiel nodded. “Do I get to say goodbye to Mommy?”

Geralt smiled. “This is not goodbye. You’re not leaving until the end of the week, sweetheart. You’ll have plenty of time to see your mom. Let’s sort out your stuff.”

He urged Emiel out of his lap and, seemingly feeling better, Emiel rolled right back to his feet. He grabbed his satchel and put it on the bed so he could start going through his things. He wouldn’t need too terribly much. Witchers didn’t _have_ much. He just needed to pick what of his clothes he wanted to bring and sort out what clothes he wanted to leave here. Geralt would either sell the clothes or keep them around, should Aiden return with a small plea that Emiel just needed them. If anything, he would outgrow them quickly.

“Take your good boots,” Geralt said as he pulled himself to his feet. “You’ll need them.”

Out in the main portion of the cottage, Aiden had all but finished sorting through what they would need to bring and what they couldn’t. Geralt needed his travel sled more than they would, so they could only take what Aiden’s horse would carry. He figured she’d carry a fair bit, but having an extra rider meant a good deal of their traveling would be left to chance. They couldn’t bring enough food for the road; Aiden would have to hunt for it and just trust Emiel could keep his ass in one place for a long enough time to not get lost in the woods.

With that out of the way, Aiden hiked himself off the floor and went straight for Eskel’s room. He knocked once, as a warning, and then stepped inside. Eskel was getting better at doing things on his own, which meant he wasn’t lying down in bed all day. When Aiden came in to see him, he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet planted on the floorboards. He wasn’t moving, because he still couldn’t stand up on his own, but this was progress within itself.

It meant he was getting stronger. Pulling his legs around with him wasn’t happening anymore. He could shift them to the edge of the bed and let them tumble off. While it wasn’t perfect, and he needed help to stand, it was _something_. It still wasn’t enough to have Eskel smiling.

“Hey there, Red,” Aiden greeted, stepping up to the side of the bed. He’d taken to calling Eskel _Red_ because that was the color of the shirts he wore most often. Eskel may have even ventured to say it was his favorite color.

“Thought you were leaving today.”

Aiden shook his head. “End of the week. Or, beginning of next. Really, I don’t fucking know. Just when we’re ready to go. Don’t worry,” Aiden put his hands up, “we’ll say goodbye. I’m not kidnapping your son.”

Eskel scoffed. “Here I thought you were taking him away forever.”

“Ouch. Well, I’m coming back eventually. That’s something, right?” Aiden grinned and whirled around to stand just in front of Eskel. “Wanna try?” He asked.

Eskel reached out and took Aiden’s arms for support. “It is something,” he said, though his breath was half-taken with effort as he tried to lift himself up. “Might even miss you.”

“Oh, really? Please, miss me. Miss me desperately. Shed a few tears, even, I’d be honored.”

“Well, ah—” Eskel finally hoisted himself up, and stood on shaking legs with Aiden’s arms for balance. “Do enjoy your company,” he muttered. “Not looking forward to a lonely heat, is all.”

Aiden grinned. “Really, now?”

At Geralt’s approval and Eskel’s desire, Aiden _had_ accompanied him on exactly two heats, so far. He hadn’t so much as laid a hand on Eskel, but he hadn’t needed to. Eskel enjoyed the company. Aiden just sat in the room. Once or twice, he’d even sat on the bed with Eskel and given him a hand to squeeze, an arm or a hip to cling too while he rutted himself off into the sheets. Aiden knew firsthand how awful lonely heats were; it was part of the reason he took his potions.

The last few days of Eskel’s autumn heat, he’d asked Aiden to _talk_ to him. Not in any way that an alpha ever would, but with words only another omega could use. Aiden had been sweet with just enough bite that Eskel almost felt _satisfied_ with his own fingers up his cunt. Eskel was just getting comfortable with it, too, having Aiden so close to him. There might have even come a time where Aiden would _participate_ in Eskel’s heat, because Eskel desperately wanted someone to help him.

He just couldn’t have Geralt. That knowledge left him sick, often, so he tried not to think about it. No matter how badly he wanted his mate in bed with him during his heat, he couldn’t do it. The thought of an alpha on top of him terrified him, and though he knew why, he refused to acknowledge it.

Eskel sat back down on the bed once his knees got tired. Aiden helped him do so gently instead of just falling backwards. Once he was there, Eskel slouched forward onto his thighs and sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

“You’ll take care of Emiel, won’t you?” He asked.

Aiden almost had the nerve to look offended. “Like I popped him out, myself. Promise. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“It’s different there, isn’t it?”

Aiden shrugged. “Without knowing what your shitty place was like? Can’t really say. I can _guess_ but doesn’t mean anything. Don’t think Emiel’s gonna have a problem no matter what school he went to. Can’t be an omega without the right tools, and you’re the one who said he didn’t have those tools.” Aiden held out his arms again, and Eskel took them.

Eskel strained to pull himself up, and once he had, he stopped to breathe.

“Look at the parents, here,” Aiden continued. “Really thinking the signs say he’s going—”

“Don’t say it,” Eskel managed out. “Don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever you want, Red.”

“Wish he could stay a kid forever; stupid,” Eskel muttered, then sat back down on the edge of the bed.

Aiden shook his head. “Not stupid. Plenty of parents want their babies to stay babies. Kid’s gotta grow up some time, though.” Aiden bit down on his lip and looked at Eskel. Instead of leaving his arms to hang stupidly in the air, he put his hands on his hips. “He’ll be fine, Red. Promise.”

Eskel nodded. “I’m sure he will be. Can’t help but worry.”

Aiden rolled his eyes somewhat fondly, a smile plastered on his face. “You and Geralt. Big bunch of babies, if you ask me.” He plopped down on the bed beside Eskel. “Know you’re losing your kid and all, but you got the rest of _forever_ to be with him. Witchers live a long time.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop the frowning and think about yourself for a minute.” Aiden patted Eskel’s shoulder. “Get you up and walking while Emiel’s away. Think of all you can do with him when you can get out of bed.”

That twinged something, and when Eskel looked at Aiden, there was a bit of spark to his eye. They wouldn’t be playing games or learning to read and write, but they could actually _do_ something. Eskel could go out with Emiel. They could go to town together, hunt together, get food and supplies. There was a whole world on the other side of the cottage door, and so far, Eskel hadn’t seen much of it.

“There we go.” Aiden slapped Eskel’s back, then. “You got it. Great. Don’t worry, Red. I’ll be back in the spring with all the hot details you could ever want on the baby boy.”

“Thank you,” Eskel said. “For doing all of this.”

Aiden just smiled. He really didn’t have any other place he’d rather be. They had the whole rest of the week for pleasantries and tearful goodbyes, and then it would just be Eskel and Geralt in a cottage all alone. It was like their own private winter at Kaer Morhen, only significantly safer. Less fun, too. It wasn’t as if Eskel would be inviting Geralt to spend cold nights in his room, but Geralt could at least have a _bed_ , now that Emiel wouldn’t be in the house.

The week had passed, and one dark and early morning before the sun had even risen, everyone was awake for a sendoff. Aiden and Geralt stepped outside first to get Aiden’s horse ready for their take off; they took Emiel’s bag with them, which left Emiel in the house to scarf down his breakfast as quickly as he could. They weren’t going to linger around until the sun came up, which meant Emiel’s time was limited. He was anxious enough as it were, but he’d been having nothing but unpleasant dreams about this sending.

He was _leaving_ his parents. Maybe not for a decade straight, there had to be a way to see them before then. Ten years was too much. Emiel couldn’t even _fathom_ what ten years felt like; he wasn’t even ten years old. Of what Emiel did know, he knew this wouldn’t be like his trips to town with Geralt. This was much more permanent, and that was what scared him. He swallowed down his breakfast as fast as he could stomach it, then went straight for Eskel’s bedroom.

Emiel never knocked; he just went straight in, and his whole face brightened up when he saw Eskel already awake, sitting in bed. Since the incident, Emiel hadn’t tried to jump on Eskel again. He’d been so much shyer around him, afraid to interact in any way out of the ordinary, but to see Eskel already sitting up and waiting for him changed everything. Emiel ran across the room and pulled himself right up into the bed, plopping himself down in Eskel’s lap and falling right into his chest.

“Good morning, Emmie,” Eskel muttered into his hair. His arms wrapped up around Emiel tightly, holding him close. Emiel hugged him back, little hands digging into his sides and squeezing at his nightshirt.

They stayed like that for a long, long moment. It was the most contact they’d had in ages, and Eskel was glad for it. He had his hand in Emiel’s hair, Emiel wrapped up in his arms. The thought of letting Emiel go was almost too much to bear, but eventually, he had to. Emiel sat back in his lap, and Eskel cupped his face in his hands, wiping away at his silent tears.

“Hey now,” Eskel whispered, “it’ll be alright. It’s not forever.”

“I know.” Emiel sniffed and rubbed his nose. “For too long, though.”

“Oh, Emmie. You’ll get there and hardly notice we’re gone. Become a strong Witcher for me, okay?”

Emiel nodded. “Gonna miss you, Mommy.”

Eskel pulled him back in for a tight hug, kissing the side of his face briefly, and then just holding him. “Miss you too. Be up and walking by the time you’re back, okay?” Eskel pushed Emiel back just slight enough that their eyes could meet. “You’ll have to take me into the city and show me around. Think you can do that?”

Emiel nodded, then clapped his little hands on Eskel’s cheeks gently enough that Eskel barely felt the touch. “Love you,” he muttered.

Eskel looked broken as much as he looked happy. “I love you, too, Emmie.”

Another hug. Another long one that was broken when there was a knock at the door. Just one, followed by Aiden stepping inside and leaving the door wide open. He was all decked out in his armor, and it was so different from Geralt’s. Geralt’s was heavier, and it covered more. Aiden wore a tight leather vest with gauntlets, his arms out on display. Eskel looked at that armor and tried to imagine what Emiel would look like wearing it, all grown up.

“We have to go,” Aiden said. “Hate to cut it short.”

“It’s alright,” Eskel assured. He kissed Emiel’s cheeks, one and then the other, and sent him off. “Be good, Emiel.”

Emiel waved. “Bye-bye, Mommy.”

Aiden took Emiel’s free hand and led him out the door. Eskel waved—Emiel waved—until they were out of each other’s view and Emiel was standing outside.

Everything was happening all at once, and it was nearly too quick. The horse was there, packed and ready to go, and they were all standing in the darkness of the morning, draped in a heavy fog. Chills were beginning to set in, and it wouldn’t be long before snow started to fall, even this far south. They were only going _further_ south, so the weather would change. For now, it was unpleasant as everything else was. Emiel had said goodbye to Eskel, which meant he just had to say goodbye to Geralt.

Ripping his hand out of Aiden’s, Emiel broke into a quick dash. There wasn’t much distance between him and Geralt, and he cleared it quickly. Wide, open arms met him, grabbed him, and Geralt hoisted him up into the air. Emiel squeezed around his neck, legs around his waist, and Geralt patted his back.

“Ready to go?” Geralt asked.

“No,” came Emiel’s muffled response, shaking his head into Geralt’s neck.

Geralt looked at Aiden, who offered a grimacing smile. He didn’t exactly know what to do with Emiel; he wasn’t the parent. He would never _be_ a parent, which meant Geralt was on his own for this one.

“You know, Emmie, Aiden’s been excited about having this time with you,” Geralt said. Emiel leaned back to look at Geralt, sitting on his forearms. “Think you two will have a lot of fun, don’t you?”

Emiel nodded. “Wanna go, just don’t wanna leave.”

Geralt gave him a grin. “I know, Emmie, but you’ll be alright. Give me a big hug, and we’ll get you on the horse.”

Emiel fell forward and squeezed Geralt hard. When they parted, Geralt was getting Emiel situated at the front of the saddle. Before he let Emiel go entirely, he kissed him on the cheek. Then, he stepped away from the horse so Emiel couldn’t get any more ideas. He was leaving for Stygga Citadel, because he had to. It’d taken them all long enough to realize that. Now that it was happening, it was frightening, but it was for the best.

“Alright,” Aiden finally stepped forward. “Guess that’s that. Do I get a goodbye kiss?”

Geralt shook his head. “Don’t have anything for you. Just make sure you take care of him.”

Aiden bowed. “Intend to return with the proper papers to make him mine.” Then, he rolled his eyes. “He’ll be _fine_. Die before I let anything happen to him, I promise.”

Seemingly satisfied, Geralt nodded. “Thank you,” he even said, and that made Aiden smile.

“Now, we Cats are a bit high on the emotions. So, can’t promise Emiel will turn out all stoic and stupid like you.” Aiden jumped up onto his horse, getting himself situation so that he and Emiel were comfortable.

“Just don’t turn him into a drama queen,” Geralt replied, a snort of laughter following. “Don’t know what I’d do with two of those around.”

Aiden scoffed. “Rude. See you around, Geralt.” He waved a salute from his forehead, then clicked his tongue to set his horse off.

It would be a long journey down to Stygga Citadel, and an even longer journey once they arrived. It was nestled in the southern mountains of Ebbing, high up where it was supposed to be defensible and impregnable. With the coin Geralt provided, Aiden didn’t think they’d need to stop along the way to earn anything, but there was still a massive amount of distance to cover between a tiny Ellander cottage and a massive Ebbing citadel. But once they made it, Emiel would be one step closer to being a Witcher.

Emiel proved to be a quiet, but curious companion. When he did speak, it was to ask questions about the things that they saw, the people they passed. There had been a time or two when they’d had to stop for Aiden to dismount and fight back wolves that had gotten a waft of their scent, the food that they carried or just the idea of fresh meat. Aiden always came out unscathed, and then Emiel would ask questions about the wolves or about Aiden’s fighting technique. It was different than Daddy’s, he would say.

Aiden answered Emiel’s questions. He held Emiel when Emiel got tired of riding, just so they could ride a little longer. At first, he let their bedrolls be set up right next to one another so Emiel would feel safer. Then, it turned into rolling up together in one bedroll because safety didn’t mean that Emiel wasn’t afraid of sleeping out in the wilderness, like this. Aiden took care of him, and that was all that mattered. Aiden hunted for their food, found places to refill their waterskins or stop for a quick dip in the water. Aiden even recanted tales for Emiel, to keep him entertained.

Among those tales were practical things, like information about monsters and tips on how to fight them. Aiden talked of alchemy, too, and was quite impressed with what knowledge Emiel had been able to amass from his half-training with Geralt. There must have been a reason Geralt was able to keep up for it as well as he did; he had been a grand Witcher student, and Emiel was taking after him.

They were nearing the mountain range that stood between them and the southern territories, and though it was still midday, Aiden opted to camp for the night instead of attempting their way through the pass in waning light. The days were getting shorter, colder; it wouldn’t be worth it to risk their safety through the pass in the middle of the darkness. They camped near the foot of the mountains, after Aiden had done a quick perimeter check to ensure no monsters would be disturbing them. He came back from that check with a couple of hares, much to Emiel’s delight.

“Soup’s on, kid,” Aiden said, once the rabbits had been fully cooked. “You like this shit, don’t you?”

Emiel laughed. “Not shit,” he said. “It’s good.”

A couple weeks on the road with Aiden, and Emiel had learned a few new words. Geralt was sure not to mind; he didn’t have all that innocent a mouth himself. Every Witcher had to learn some naughty words eventually; Emiel was just getting his in early, because Aiden didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

“You know what I like to eat?” Aiden said. “Like to eat _dog_.” Then, he laughed. “You know, the wild ones we keep finding? Long as they aren’t rabid, not a bad meal.”

“That’s gross,” Emiel muttered.

“You ever had wolf meat?”

Emiel shook his head, and Aiden learned how to keep his mouth shut quite quickly, after that. For all intents and purposes, Eskel was a _wolf_ , so. Emiel didn’t need to hear, but he was too smart of his own good. He could see the look on Aiden’s face, because Aiden didn’t conceal his thoughts, and decided it was the perfect time to ask more questions.

“Aiden?” He asked, and Aiden looked at him instead of the ground. “When Daddy and I left the house, why did you stay?” He asked. “Why did you spend so much time with Mommy?”

Aiden gulped. Emiel had that look on his face that spoke to his determination. He wasn’t going to just let Aiden brush off the answer to this question. Emiel was eight, not stupid. They might have been mutually exclusive in any other child, but Emiel had been _born_ with mutagens in his blood. Apparently, that had some side-effects that were not all together distasteful.

“Well—” Aiden swallowed around the rabbit in his mouth. “Do you know about heats?”

Emiel shook his head. Aiden was not going to be the one to give him that talk, no. That was for the parents and the parents alone, and honestly, Aiden was sure they’d both be fine if Emiel never learned a thing about sex.

“Your mommy goes through them. I do, too. It’s an omega thing, you know?”

Emiel nodded, his face a bit blank. He already had a better poker-face than Aiden ever would.

“They’re not very fun to go through alone, basically,” Aiden continued, looking away from Emiel. He was having to think very carefully about what he said, and he wasn’t used to that. Normally, he just let stuff fly from his mouth, but he was talking to a child. “Your parents are mates, so—have you ever seen that scar on the back of your mom’s neck?”

Emiel nodded. “Looks like teeth,” he said.

“Is teeth,” Aiden replied. “That’s how mates happen. Alpha bites an omega, and there you go. Mates. Alpha is supposed to take care of the heat, but your mom is uncomfortable around alphas.”

“Because he was hurt?” Emiel asked. It was all he knew about what had happened. That bad men hurt his mother.

Aiden nodded. “Exactly. Your mom loves your dad, you know that. Love you, too. But Dad being an alpha makes things a bit rough, you get it? So, I try to help your mommy instead.”

Emiel nodded, face still relatively blank. He didn’t give anything away, just that he understood what Aiden was telling him. Aiden gave a wavering smile, then ripped another bite from his rabbit. Emiel had almost finished his meal with how much _listening_ he got to do.

“Does Mommy help with yours?” Emiel asked, finally.

Aiden almost choked. “No—no, no, no. I don’t have any,” he grumbled, chewed, and sighed. “Take potions to make them go away. Heat’s not exactly good for traveling.”

Emiel nodded. “I get it,” he said. “But Mommy doesn’t travel, so heat’s fine?”

Aiden shrugged. “Maybe? Honestly, think the only reason he doesn’t stop his, too, is because the potions aren’t exactly legal. Stupid alphas don’t _like_ when an omega refuses to have a heat, basically. I mean—your dad seems fine, you know? He’s good. Only good alpha I’ve ever met.”

“What if I become an alpha?” Emiel asked, tilting his head. “Possible, right?”

“Definitely, but you won’t know for a long time. No use thinking about it now. Just think about the good stuff.” Aiden finished his meal and scooted around their campfire to sit closer to Emiel. “Like how it’s about bedtime, little man—” Aiden broke off into laughter as he pinched and tickled at Emiel’s sides. Emiel squealed and fell over into Aiden’s lap, laughing as Aiden’s onslaught continued.

“Okay, okay!” Emiel shouted. “I’ll go to bed!”

Aiden smiled. While he had Emiel in his lap, he bent over and pressed a wet kiss to his forehead, which just made Emiel squeal again. Once Emiel found his escape, he took it and rolled to his feet. Aiden gave him a friendly tap on the butt to get him going, then leaned back over his knees to stare at the fire. He was smiling, and he shouldn’t be. He could hear _their_ words echoing around in his head, and he hated it. He wiped that smile right off his face and went right back to tending the fire.

_You_ _’re an omega, Aiden_ , he heard it again and again. _Put down your sword and put that cunt to good use. Bet you_ _’d rather have a baby, anyway. That’s all omegas are good for._

He didn’t _want_ a family. He didn’t need one. Being an omega didn’t define him. Being a Witcher did, so it wasn’t even an option. Better not to think about it. Better to shove it down so low that he forgot it was ever there, at all.

It was December by the time Stygga Citadel was on the horizon, but something strange hung in the air. Aiden pulled the horse to a quick stop before he begun the trip up the pass and just _stared_. He could see tracks in the ground. Old tracks nearly faded. Emiel wouldn’t be able to see them, but Aiden could. He could pass it off as just the yearly struggle up and down the pass to get to the citadel, but there were _wheel_ tracks, like a wagon had been taken, not brought.

“Emiel, I need you to stay close, okay?” Aiden said. “When I get off the horse, you stay right behind me.”

Emiel nodded, though he didn’t much react. Aiden kicked into the horse and started her up the pass. He went up quickly, and while everything _appeared_ to be in order, half of the citadel was in the mountain. For all he knew, he was jumping to an incorrect conclusion, but that didn’t stop Aiden’s heart from pounding or the panic to set in. If something was wrong, he had a _child_ with him. Taking Emiel into a death trap was the last thing he wanted, but unfortunately, Emiel was safest with him.

They pressed on, Aiden’s thoughts whirling in his head like a storm. Something smelled wrong. Something lingered in the air like panic and fear, and it wasn’t his own. Somewhere beneath it was the smell of _blood_ , and that had Aiden kicking into the side of his horse, again. Faster. They climbed the mountain faster, because they had to. Aiden knew, then, that he wasn’t panicking. Something was wrong. Something couldn’t possibly be _right_ , not with the way the air smelled.

As they approached the door, Aiden saw the first fallen body. It was unrecognizable, from how it was cut to pieces. Whatever had happened, it was a surprise. Not a fun one, either. Aiden dismounted his horse, immediately, and caught Emiel as he slid down the side. Emiel was perfectly large enough now to ride the horse on his own, mount and dismount, but Aiden suddenly could not let him go. Even when they were down on their feet and Aiden had shuffled his horse off to the side, in the rocks where she would be hidden, Aiden did not let go of Emiel’s hand.

“You need to stay close,” Aiden said, quietly.

“Something happened,” Emiel replied. “Something bad.”

Aiden looked down at him, eyes a bit wide. “Yeah. Thanks, kid. No problem at all.” He breathed, deeply. “Fuck.”

The door creaked as Aiden opened it. Before he dared entered, he peered inside to take in the entrance hall. It was devoid of life, but not empty. Once inside, Aiden fumbled through the bag around his shoulders and produced a potion. He threw it back, and then immediately grabbed Emiel again. Emiel wouldn’t be able to see, but once the potion took, Aiden could see _everything_. The entrance hall was littered with bodies less than fresh. It wasn’t a recent attack. It had had happened sometime during the year, while Aiden was gone. A good deal of the Witchers would have been gone.

Aiden dropped down at the first sign of evidence he found. He dragged his fingers over a shield, and he recognized the emblem on it immediately. Stygga Citadel was sitting at the southern border of Ebbing. The emblem he saw was _of_ Ebbing, but it was not the only one. All royal emblems etched on shields from an army of kings. And they’d attacked Witchers? Aiden gulped, then pushed back to his feet. He squeezed Emiel’s hand and kept walking.

All of the Cats hadn’t been at Stygga. It was the middle of the year; they’d been out on the Path. Even if _all_ of the Witchers present had died, the Cats wouldn’t be over. They’d be elsewhere. Aiden had no reason to want to continue into the citadel, but he had to. He had to find what happened to the Cats and where they had gone. So, he forged on, and just made sure Emiel was stepping on his heels as they continued.

They didn’t get much farther before Aiden was stopping again, dropping down to his knees. One arm went around Emiel’s waist to keep him close, and the other jutted out to wipe away long hair, pulled from its ties in the midst of a fight. Aiden let out a hefty sigh, then bit down on his bottom lip like it might have even begun to tremble.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Axel’s dead— _fuck_ —” Aiden pushed himself back up. He and Axel hadn’t been _friends_ , but Aiden wasn’t friends with many of the Cats. Axel had been older than him, anyway. They’d only recently met. Axel had apparently been ready to die for the defense of their citadel, because he had. A stab wound right through the neck. It almost made Aiden sick.

He hadn’t a single clue where to look _for_ clues, so Aiden just started walking, Emiel close behind and stepping on his heels. Anything that looked of worth, he stopped and inspected it. Nothing pointed to where the Cats had gone, but they must have gone somewhere. There were too many dead soldiers, but significantly less than Aiden would have expected for a proper attack. The footsteps he’d seen outside had mostly been leading away from the citadel, too, though there hadn’t been many.

There were other ways out of Stygga, through the mountain tunnels. The lack of bodies told Aiden two things: it hadn’t been an attack, not in full force, and the Cats must have had time to escape. There were dead Witchers scattered in the halls, but it could never be all of them. That took Aiden straight to the lower levels, where he soon found himself in the kitchens.

“Been raided,” Aiden said, his eyes wide. “There’s nothing left.”

Food supplies were taken, and the more he looked, the more he smelled, the surer he was that it was the Cats who had done the raiding of the kitchen. He should think to find their supplies stores just as empty—even more reason to believe that the School of the Cats was not dead. He walked further into the kitchen to confirm his suspicion, then stopped in a sudden shock. Aiden went from calm to shaking in a minute, dropping down to the floor and covering his mouth like he might vomit.

“Aiden?” Emiel called for him and was suddenly there. He wrapped his arms around Aiden’s head and pulled him.

Aiden was glad Emiel couldn’t see in this darkness and hated that he could. Right there on the floor, her dress torn half open and legs ripped so far apart there were wounds in the junction of her thighs, was Delilah. Aiden had known her—nothing more than a younger kitchen wench. She’d been older than Aiden, but not much; she’d also been an _omega_ , which accounted for the rest of it. Soldiers who had had fun with her before slitting her throat and leaving her like that.

“Are you okay?” Emiel asked.

“Just—someone I knew,” Aiden muttered. “Dead. You can’t see. Shouldn’t see.”

He heard Emiel gulp, then closed his own eyes for a moment to try and gather himself. He’d lost his virginity with Delilah. They argued and bantered like the worst of friends, really, but they’d touched and explored in the broom closets and nooks of the citadel. She had been a confidant, at least, and a friend at best. Seeing her dead—seeing her _desecrated_ —was disgusting. Aiden didn’t hate the way the Cat mutagens fucked with his emotions at the best of times, but right there, he almost wished he’d sucked down whatever turned Geralt into a block of wood.

When the strength returned to his legs, Aiden stood and ripped down the first tapestry he could find. He draped it over Delilah. It would be no burial, but it would be better than _that_. He suspected rotfiends and ghouls would begin to show up when the temperature turned warm again, though he was glad he’d arrived here soon enough to find the castle devoid of the monsters. That would have made things worse.

“This way, Emiel.” Aiden led him back out through the kitchens.

They stopped by the storage closets to confirm Aiden’s theory. They’d also been raided, and only nonessentials were left behind. Some—maybe even most—of the Cats had escaped. He just had to find _where_. Their pace turned quickly when Aiden caught the scent of something. It was certainly familiar, although it raised bile up in his throat. He followed it, and it led them farther down the winding, spiral staircases. They went down, down, and farther down _still_ , until they reached what must have been one of the lowest points in the citadel.

Behind a barred door, Aiden saw a passage out into the tunnel. Swallowing hard, Aiden grabbed the cold bars of the door. Focusing was difficult, in the dark, but the longer he stared at the ground, the more came to light. Footprints.

“They must have escaped this way,” Aiden said, then shook the door. It was locked, and he didn’t care to find a key. “Prints at the door must have been a diversion. We find where this tunnel lets out, we find the Cats.”

“Back on the horse?” Emiel whined, wincing.

“Back on the horse. Come on, I’ll carry you.” Aiden leaned down and hoisted Emiel up off the ground. He shifted Emiel around until he was comfortably seated on Aiden’s hip, and then they had to backtrack. “You’re heavy, kid,” Aiden muttered.

Emiel didn’t say anything, but the way he laid down against Aiden’s shoulder might have just made Aiden’s heart flutter. Skip a beat. Some stupid omega thing that he just swallowed down so he could focus on jumping up the stairs.

He took them two at a time until they were back on the main floor, and then he headed back out for the entrance hall. He took Emiel straight back to the horse, and then got them both settled. Aiden wasn’t about to take a rest, and he wasn’t stopping to miss a beat. Once they were both settled, they were moving. The tunnel had been facing north, so Aiden could only assume that the path went through the mountains to come out on the northern side.

Making their way back down the mountain pass was the easy part; they were left without a path to follow, after that. Aiden just turned his horse to the west and hoped that his assumption was right. If the tunnel went any other direction but north, they were screwed. Aiden didn’t think he’d ever be able to hunt down the rest of the school, though he was sure it still _existed._ Somewhere.

“When can we stop for the night?” Asked Emiel.

Aiden sighed. “When we’re safe,” he said. “Don’t know if who attacked the castle is still there yet.”

“Kaer Morhen was attacked,” Emiel muttered, leaning back into Aiden’s chest. “Don’t remember much.”

Aiden wrapped an arm around Emiel’s waist and patted his stomach. “Yeah, your dad told me a bit about that. You don’t remember running?”

Emiel shook his head. “Just remember being in a cave. Met Mommy and Daddy for the first time.”

“Ouch.” Aiden swallowed. “I’m sorry I took you in there, kid. Bad memories all around, huh?”

Emiel just shrugged. “Don’t really know,” he said, and that was just going to have to do.

They rode for hours before Aiden came across anything interesting. It was the scent that he picked up on, first, and then they were moving faster along the rocky path. That scent led him straight to a cave opening in the base of the mountain, heavily disguised with undergrowth and fallen rocks. Aiden didn’t bother with the cave, because they had no reason to go in the cave. He could see _clear_ wagon tracks, horse hooves, footprints in the dirt.

They’d found it. The escape route. It had happened, and it was right there. Aiden didn’t even bother with more than an excited exclamation, a gasp. He kicked into his horse, held Emiel tight, and set off into a full blown gallop. If they were lucky, they could find wherever they’d gone by the end of the day. If they weren’t, then Aiden would make sure they camped somewhere that they wouldn’t lose the scent. Evening was already falling fast, which meant they would have to camp, but Aiden wanted to get as far as he possibly could before they _found_ the School of the Cats. They’d gone somewhere.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: sexism and sexual based insults

Aiden’s senses had picked up on the large mass of _something_ before they’d actually found the end of the trail they’d been following. Once those senses had ticked off, Aiden knew exactly where he was going, and he knew that they would be able to sense him coming too. One of the perks of enhanced Witcher senses—finding other Witchers. He wouldn’t be sure until they found the end of the path, but he was sure, regardless. Aiden knew exactly where they were going, and he was _excited_ , almost.

Right at the end of the path, settled in a rather sizable forest clearing, was the School of that Cat. What was left of it. There were two guards at the entrance: rather large, older looking Cats that Aiden didn’t really know. They didn’t even question him, as Aiden kicked his horse through the space between them. They saw the yellow eyes, the medallion, and knew he belonged here. Other Cats had been steadily trickling in; Aiden wasn’t expected, but no one was shocked to see another straggler.

Immediately off to the right was a small cluster of horses, and that was where Aiden stopped his own. He dropped down from the horse and went straight for the bags, the supplies, while Emiel dismounted. Emiel was looking around with wide-eyes; there were so many people. He’d seen so many people, but not like this. Not in a long time. It _looked_ like a Witcher school. There was sparring, people walking about with arms and armor. Emiel suddenly couldn’t help his gawking and tugged on Aiden’s belt.

“What is it, kiddo?” Aiden didn’t glance down at him, just continued to pull down supplies.

“There’s a lady!” Emiel whispered, but the shock was evident in his voice.

Then, Aiden did look down at him, snorting. “What? Never seen a lady Witcher before? That’s Sophra, I think. Glad she made it.” Aiden turned back to the saddle bags. He’d unstrapped them and thrown them over his shoulders, and then started on removing the saddle. That was when someone ducked out from the tent.

“Kaer Morhen didn’t have any ladies,” Emiel said.

Aiden barely heard him. The other Witcher had stepped out of the tent to shoo him away from the horse. He would take care of it, and Aiden could get on to whatever actual business he had. There had to be _some_ business, because the Witcher saw Emiel, and questions popped up immediately. None of them were asked. Aiden took Emiel’s hand and dragged him away from the horse stop.

“Wolves are stupid,” Aiden said. “No ladies, no omegas. No wonder your dad’s got a stick up his ass.”

Emiel snorted.

“You’ll have more fun as a Cat. Let’s get going. Gotta go see some people to make sure we can even do this, okay?”

Emiel didn’t know what Aiden meant, but he would follow Aiden wherever he needed to. This camp was full of people Emiel didn’t know, and that reverted Emiel right back to the shy boy he was, at heart. He didn’t have the skills to thrive in a big group, and stuck close to Aiden as they weaved around tents, horse shit, and other Witchers. Aiden was looking for anyone that _he_ knew, someone that he could at least stop to talk with. It was more important that he found someone he liked, but Aiden’s luck was running out.

They stepped past an open space, one where a large fire was lit and surrounded by logs sat upon by Witchers. It was such a normal setup that Aiden didn’t even glance at it. He’d recognize where they needed to go when he found it, but someone called out as they stood.

“Well, if it isn’t the return of the prodigal cunt!” A man shouted out, his arms out wide.

Aiden stopped instantly, titling his head to the side to see what sort of mess he’d just inadvertently walked through. He felt Emiel squeeze his hand a little tighter as the man approached. Aiden knew him. He was a prickly little bastard with a penchant for some unnecessary amount of hitting and snarling—Brehen. He had long black hair, slanted eyes, and a lot of unchecked aggression. A lot of rage. A lot of down-the-nose-glaring at omegas like Aiden who thought they deserved a place in the world.

“The fuck do you want?” Aiden snapped.

“Thought you were dead.” Brehen’s concern was feigned, and he made no attempt to hide that. “Can’t be worried about an old friend.”

“Fuck off.”

Brehen laughed, then turned back to his _friends_. “You hear that?” He asked, arms stretched out again. “The _cunt_ thinks he can tell me what to do.”

Aiden smirked. “At least the cunt’s got a brain. I don’t start fights with people I can’t beat down. What you got on that?”

Brehen’s look went dark, then. He didn’t stop Aiden as he stepped into their little camp, dragging Emiel behind him. There was an empty log, and that was where Aiden plopped himself down. Emiel did not sit, and rather, stood mostly behind Aiden. Aiden was by no means _small_ , though he still fit the shape of an omega. Hourglass, almost. Long gorgeous hair, sharp features. He was big enough that Emiel could hide behind him with his lean muscle.

“Where’d you get the kid?” Gaetan asked. He a younger Witcher who looked a bit beyond his years with how he kept his head shaved. Aiden had gone to blows with him a couple of winters prior. It might have been theft, but Aiden didn’t keep score. Gaetan was prickly as the best of them, though he was happy enough to live and let live. Whatever problems that caused were someone else’s problem.

“Aw, did the omega call child surprise on his first year out?” Brehen took his seat again, rolling his eyes.

“Far too old for a child surprise,” another voice spoke up. That was Jad Karadin. He was only one year older than Aiden, and the two had never gotten along. He was apparently trying to grow in his beard, now, and Aiden only barely managed to maintain his laughter at it. All three of them were alphas, and all three of them always had something to say. Karadin at least had the head about him to keep calm about it. Brehen was a hot head, and there wasn’t anything more Gaetan cared about than himself.

“Someone’s got a fucking brain,” Aiden mumbled. “Was looking for Kiyan, if any of you fine old idiots have seen him. “Aiden didn’t even bother to consider that Kiyan had died at Stygga.

“Run off to your stupid beta friend, yeah.” Brehen folded his arms. “He’s probably off fucking goats; fucker’s never been right in the head.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Aiden raised an eyebrow. It was good to know Kiyan was alive, at least. That was never a guarantee for a Witcher. “Treyse make it? Guxart, maybe? Need to talk to them _about_ the kid.”

“Really just pick one up off the street?” Gaetan snorted. “Probably not your brightest move, as things go.” Because while Gaetan always had something to say, he wasn’t always so cruel.

“Low,” Brehen chuckled. “Dragonfly fucks off, so you’re fucking kids now?”

Aiden swallowed something hard in his throat, and then suddenly, Emiel was tugging on his sleeve. Aiden leaned down so Emiel could whisper in his ear, and the more Emiel whispered, the wider Aiden’s smirk grew. It wasn’t a _good_ thing when Aiden smirked, not in a situation like this. When Emiel stepped back, retreating back to hide behind Aiden’s shadow, Aiden stood up.

“Wanna eat those words?” Aiden asked.

“Oh, a feisty cunt.” Brehen did not stand up though. He sat where he was, bent over his knees, and Aiden looked down at him.

“Too fucking feisty for you. Wanna talk like that, then you should be ready to get what you get. Why don’t you get up and put me in my fucking place if you think you’re so big?”

Brehen didn’t move. He frowned.

“Oh, what, too fucking afraid to fight a _cunt_? That’s all I am to you, yeah?” Aiden spread his arms out, gesturing wildly the angrier he got. “If you’re so fucking big, then get up here and _prove_ it. What’s there to be scared of? Cunts don’t have fists. Oh, but they’re too fucking good for you, bet. When was the last time you sunk your stupid alpha knot in something warm?” Aiden folded his arms then, snorting. “Putting your hands over the fire before you wank off doesn’t fucking count.”

Gaetan snickered to the side, burying his laughter in a long drink of water. Karadin didn’t react much outside of shifting his gaze from Aiden to Brehen. Brehen was fuming. His face was red with his growing anger, his fists shaking. He’d lost himself to it, and that was exactly where Aiden wanted him. Before Brehen could even _stand_ , so consumed with his own sudden blood-list, Aiden socked him right in the face. Hard. Hard enough to send him spiraling back down into his log.

“Where the _fuck_ is Treyse?” Aiden asked.

Brehen was too busy groaning, holding his nose as the blood started to stream down his face.

“End of the path there, kid,” Gaetan said, finally having his own voice back. No more laughing, but it was going to start up again with how stupid Brehen had suddenly started to look. “Can’t miss it. Real big tent.”

“Fuck it all,” Aiden grumbled to himself, turning back on his heel. He stepped by Emiel and scooped him right off the ground, sitting him on his hip, and started walking.

There were comments made, but Aiden knew there would be comments made. The School of the Cat trained women, trained omegas, but it wasn’t like they had it easy. Sophra was about the only woman Witcher left. Most of them didn’t return, and if Brehen was to be believed, Dragonfly had just _left_.

Aiden ignored all of it. He’d grown thick skin, and that’s all that mattered. He carried Emiel down the path, and just as Gaetan said, it was impossible to miss. The tent was large and square instead of a pyramid lean-to. Something caught his eye before he disappeared into the tent, though, and it was Kiyan sitting on a stood with his steel sword in his lap, sharpening it. Kiyan sensed him before Aiden approached, and when he did, Kiyan smiled.

“Made it back,” he said. “Good, good. Who’s the kid?”

“Long story,” Aiden said, shifting Emiel up his hip again. “Glad to see you made it. What the fuck happened?”

Kiyan shook his head. “Better be asking elsewhere. Treyse and Guxart have been arguing in that fucking tent for days, feels like. Fucking stupid, you ask me, but nobody asks me.”

“Brehen said—” Aiden swallowed, shifting again. Emiel was heavy. “Where’d Dragonfly go?”

Dragonfly had been younger than Aiden, but not by much. They were technically the same age, by Witcher standards, but she was clearly younger. She had never presented, and whether that was the magic of potions or simply that she was a beta was left to the imagination. Aiden had never asked, and she’d never said. They had been better _friends_ than Aiden was with the kitchen wrench, though the relationship was much the same. He did actually _like_ Dragonfly. It couldn’t have been more of a kid-like crush, but his chest had seized hearing that she was gone.

“Fucked off before we got attacked. Feels like magic, really, how fast she was gone. Her brother showed up, you believe it? Dude shows up like a decade and a half later saying he’s Dragon’s brother, and she just goes with him. We’re thinking there was some pressure to get her out of here.”

Aiden rolled his eyes, but that confirmed his imagination. She must have been an omega. A female omega with more bite than he did, and probably a stronger swing. That would never go over well, anywhere. Better to send her home where she couldn’t cause any scenes than let her hit the Path as a crazed Cat Witcher. She was a Witcher. She’d passed all of the same trials that Aiden had. He just didn’t have any long-lost noble family to fall back on. As far as Aiden knew, he’d been an orphan.

“Found Axel and Cedric’s _bodies_ back at Stygga,” Aiden said. “Went there first. Didn’t know what happened.”

Kiyan snorted. “Fucking hell. Everyone’s dead, I guess. Schrödinger fucking vanished after the whole shit of it. Nobody knows if he’s dead or alive. Joël was practically a fucking weeping widow. Heard that Gaetan wasn’t stopping back for the Winter until Joël wrote him this despondent letter about what happened. Just got back a few days ago.”

“Already laughing with his alpha buddies.”

Kiyan broke out into a sharp laugh. “Yeah, that’ll do it. You punch anyone yet?”

Aiden nodded.

“Fuck!” Kiyan laughed again, sheathing his sword as he clearly was getting no work done. “Shoulda been there to see it. Try not to kill anyone while you’re here, yeah? Bet you could take the whole damn caravan, but we’re kinda low on numbers.”

“Caravan?”

“Don’t intend to fucking camp for the rest of our lives. Go see Treyse and ask your stupid questions. Let me get some damn work done, fuck. You roll up and that’s the end of my productivity. Love you to death, Aiden, but learn to entertain yourself.”

Aiden snickered. “Thanks, Kiyan. Fucking adore you.” Then, he looked to Emiel. “Let’s go get you set up, hm?”

Kiyan watched that exchange strangely. Aiden was known to be just as much as a hothead as the rest of them. He’d gone through the same trials every Cat did, which left some of them crazy and others psychotic. Aiden’s claim to fame was his impressive mood swings, but Kiyan didn’t think that counted. He’d watched Aiden go from crude and laughing to soft, all at once, and all with just the turn of his head and the glance at a child. That was something else, and Kiyan wasn’t about to comment about it.

Aiden left Kiyan sitting there, though he didn’t take his sword back out to continue working. Right behind him was the tent, and as he approached, he could _hear_ Treyse and Guxart arguing. There wasn’t any real clear distinction between the two—who was the leader of the Cats and who was second in command. Treyse had the official title, probably, but Guxart was an old and wizened Witcher. He had the experience and the knowledge to keep things in line and to help out, so he did. They were a strange team of people who could not be more different.

Treyse had a temper, but Guxart was older and calmer. Some thought that he’d been around before the change in Cat mutagens that _made_ them all a bit crazy, but there was no way that was possible. He couldn’t be _that_ old, but nobody knew for sure. Currently, they were arguing over what they were going to do with the new setup, the new school. They’d been arguing about it for days. Treyse wanted to find a new location to settle down, and Guxart believed it would be better to evolve.

Aiden stepped right in without a care in the world for their arguing.

“Knock-knock,” he said, clearing the draped entrance of the tent. There was nothing to knock on, but that worked just as well to silence them.

In seconds, they took it all in. A Witcher that neither of them knew the name of with long, orange hair, freckles and tanned skin, and a child. The child caught their glance longer than Aiden did, though Aiden could see the assumptions that flew through their gazes as they came to the realization that this was an _omega_ —a young one—holding a child. This was why Aiden hated alphas. All of them were stupid. Anyone with a brain would have seen Emiel’s size, guessed his age, and known relation was impossible.

Aiden hadn’t been gone long enough to even have a baby, let alone pop one out already eight-years old. But alphas were stupid. Aiden didn’t like alphas. He liked omegas. If he were to ever find himself with a piece of candy on his arm, he was sure it would be an omega. Betas were fine—he liked Kiyan well enough. He liked most of the betas in the school, too. They were, thankfully, less stupid, and in far more abundance than alphas. Aiden just had more experience with the alphas, because they saw an omega and went _stupid_.

“Why have you a child?” Guxart asked. “What is your name, son?”

“Aiden,” came a harsh response. “The kid’s Emiel, and he’s got a real fucking story with him. That’s why I’m here.” He was offered a seat, and he too it, setting Emiel down to his feet. “Also, would really like to know what the fuck happened to Stygga.”

“We were sieged,” Treyse said, his rage only barely contained behind the grit in his teeth. “Three fucking days the royal armies pounded on our doors, attacked our fucking castle, and all for _what_? Kings suddenly fucking afraid that we’ll go damn right feral and rip them all down from their thrones. Right after we rip their cocks off with our teeth, steal the crowns. Royal paranoia.”

Aiden snorted, because that was easier than being upset about it. He hadn’t seen any other children in the caravan, which had its own implications. Either he just hadn’t found them, or the royal armies were trying to ensure that there were no more Witchers in the south.

“Your turn for the story,” Guxart offered. “What makes Emiel special?”

The beginning didn’t seem like an adequate place to start, but neither did the details, so Aiden just started talking. He skimped on a great deal of those details, because Eskel deserved his privacy. Aiden told the story that mattered—Kaer Morhen was just as full as stupid Wolves as he’d ever assumed, and even though they didn’t train omegas, they hadn’t ever made a habit of making sure they weren’t picking any up. Aiden understood, really. Male omegas were rare. Seemed like a waste of time, until they had one.

Omega and an alpha had a thing—a long thing—and voila, a child. Emiel. Aiden glossed over more details, and simply landed on the part where there was a half-trained and half-mutated Witcher somewhere up in the north with his fully-trained Wolf mate, and this was their weird Witcher baby. Emiel had begun the training and wished to continue it as much as his parents wanted him to. The question was simply if the School of the Cat were so lenient in the children it picked it up that it would pick up a Wolf pup.

“A half-mutated Witcher?” Was the first thing Treyse asked. “Well, fuck, why didn’t you bring him down, too?”

“Can’t walk,” Aiden replied. “Wolves roughed him up real good.” But he shrugged. Maybe that was an idea he could bring up to Eskel. “You’d be willing to take him in, too?”

Treyse nodded. “Why the fuck not? You get him down here; we’ll train the fucker. We’ll train the kid, too. Could use some more fucking students. Most of them are dead bodies back at Stygga.”

Guxart smacked Treyse in the arm for that, because Emiel all but shriveled up right in front of them.

“How the fuck does a Witcher child even happen?” Treyse continued, stepping around his table to squat down in front of Emiel. “What makes the kid special?”

“Had him after the Grasses, before the Dreams.”

“Obviously,” Treyse snapped. “Can’t have a fucking kid if the cock don’t work. So, they got to thinking that maybe some post-Grasses kid was going to be special, huh? How old are you kid? Ten, twelve?”

“Eight,” Emiel muttered.

That had Treyse looking back at Guxart, and they understood. Emiel was a bit big for his age. Maybe he was a bit strong, too. A bit smart. Maybe he would train _well_. He might even make a normal fucking Cat if he already had Wolf mutagens coursing through his body.

“Not looking to cart him between his house and the school,” Aiden continued. “Happy enough to just leave him here when I leave in the spring.”

“Speaking of.” Guxart suddenly turned around to rummage through a chest. Then, he produced a xenovox, which he handed straight to Aiden. “We’re coming into possession of more of them, but the goal is to ensure every one of our Cats has one. We _will_ be moving the school, and it’s imperative that the Witchers know where we are.”

“Great,” Aiden said, ignoring how Treyse practically fumed at the suggestion of turning into a caravan. Half of the camp already assumed that’s what they were doing. It didn’t seem like a bad idea, either. Other schools considered them outcasts. People didn’t like them. Becoming nomads just seemed like the next step in being the freaks of the world.

“Will you be staying for the winter?”

Aiden nodded. “Gonna watch over the kid as long as I can. Be back to keep an eye on him, too. Every winter, you hear that?” He leaned forward on his knees and tapped Emiel on the nose. Emiel smiled.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be entirely alone at least made everything easier. He couldn’t see Geralt _or_ Eskel, but he would have part of a guarantee that he would see Aiden. Aiden could die on the Path, but it was unlikely. Not with the pact he and Geralt had made about the whole thing. Treyse and Guxart didn’t need to know that Aiden was only planning to spend about half of his time away _actually_ doing things that Witchers did. The other half of his time was going to be spent in that warm little cottage helping his new friend walk.

Geralt came back into the cottage for a midday meal, which was effectively just leftover morning food. They didn’t eat anything grand, in this cottage. Geralt was learning how to cook better, but availability of spices was limited. They had better things to spend their meager coins on, even if it meant eating bland food. Food wasn’t for their enjoyment; it was to make sure neither one of them fell right over and died. Geralt served himself and only himself, then sat down at the table to eat.

He ate quickly and in silence. Uncomfortable silence. It was strange to be in the house by himself; though he knew he wasn’t perfectly alone, but Eskel felt like he was in an entirely different world. Without Emiel in the house, Geralt’s days were mostly silent. Every now and again he could hear Eskel moving about, sitting up to the edge of the bed to try and stand, but he still didn’t know if Eskel had managed to stand on his own. So far, Eskel hadn’t asked for his help.

They only saw each other when Geralt brought Eskel his food, which he only ever did after he’d finished his own. They didn’t eat together. They barely spoke. Geralt had plenty to busy himself with, but he _missed_ Eskel. He thought back fondly to their days as children, teenagers, when they could sit together and touch and talk. He remembered being able to have Eskel in his lap, hold him, kiss him. He missed it. He missed it painfully, but he pushed the thoughts aside as he prepared Eskel’s meal.

There was real meat, this time, freshly carved and cooked off the carcass of a young buck. Geralt was thankful he still had his swords and his crossbow. The bow made hunting easier than it might have been otherwise, and the meat was good.

Geralt took the flat plate over to Eskel’s door, then knocked. He knocked twice, waited, then pushed inside when Eskel called out that he was allowed. Geralt always paused at the door to look at Eskel. His hair was getting longer again and would need a cut. Still, he was beautiful. Scars and all. He was getting heftier, too. Geralt stepped up to the side of Eskel’s bed and handed him his plate—their fingers didn’t brush.

“Smells good,” Eskel commented. “What is it?”

“Deer,” Geralt responded. Eskel didn’t tend to talk much when he visited, so Geralt had been ready to leave. He froze at Eskel’s voice and stared at him.

“Will you stay?” Eskel asked. “Just while I eat?”

Geralt nodded. “Let me go get a chair.”

Eskel wanted to say Geralt could sit on the bed, but that wasn’t a good option. He waited patiently while Geralt dipped out of the room to bring back a chair. He sat the chair right at the side of the bed, near Eskel, and sat down. Eskel didn’t smile, but he still felt some happiness. He’d missed Geralt just as much as Geralt had missed him. Spent his own nights huddled under blankets thinking fondly of the time they’d been closer, been together. Eskel didn’t think anything more of it and took his first bite, instead. It tasted great, melted on his tongue.

“Oh, Geralt—this is nice,” Eskel said.

Geralt quirked a grin. “Thanks. Glad you enjoy my cooking. Emiel complained.”

“Emiel is a child, he’s allowed to complain. I think it’s good.”

“You’re allowed to complain, too, you know,” Geralt said, and he looked squarely at Eskel when he sat it. Eskel paused with a utensil in his mouth, blinking. That sounded like it meant something, and if he didn’t take this chance, he’d never get it again.

Eskel swallowed his bite, quickly, and set his plate aside on the nightstand. “I miss you, Geralt,” Eskel muttered. “Want to just _try_ something. See if I can—” Eskel didn’t finish. He reached out for Geralt, but Geralt didn’t respond. “Help me stand, Geralt. Can’t do it alone, yet.”

Geralt nodded. He wanted to insist Eskel eat first, but Eskel’s hand was hovering between them. Eskel wanted to _touch_ him. He couldn’t pass this opportunity up, and nearly knocked over his chair in his haste to stand. Eskel didn’t react, just shifted himself to the edge of the bed and _finally_ , they touched. Eskel gripped onto Geralt’s forearms, then looked up at him. For a long moment, Eskel didn’t move. He didn’t even try to stand. He just stared up at Geralt, who hadn’t even stopped the dumb look that spread over his features.

“Geralt,” Eskel nearly whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“Haven’t had a chance to touch you in—too long,” Geralt said, half-choked. “Missed you, is all.”

Eskel agreed. It felt nice to _know_ that Geralt missed him, to say that he’d missed Geralt in return. He should be trying to stand. He knew. But instead, he used whatever strength he still had in his arms and used it to pull Geralt down. Their heads nearly knocked, but Geralt caught himself on the bed. Inches away. Close enough that Eskel could feel Geralt’s breath on his face, and he _missed_ it. Maybe he wasn’t ready to have Geralt back in his bed, but he needed this. In the moment, he needed it.

With his hands on Geralt’s face, Eskel kissed him. Slow, chaste. But he kissed Geralt. Pulled Geralt down enough that he couldn’t escape, immediately, and after a moment, Geralt kissed back. He pressed into Eskel’s lips, letting his eyes close and the feeling wash over him. Eskel stroked his hands down the sides of Geralt’s face, then, feeling over his new grown in beard. When they parted, Geralt didn’t go far. Eskel hadn’t dropped his hands away, and he had no intentions of doing so.

“Like the beard,” Eskel said. “Suits you.”

Geralt smiled. “Was thinking about getting it shaved down.”

Eskel hummed. “Maybe not all the way.” He traced his finger right around Geralt’s mouth to get his point across. “Sound good?”

“Just for you. Should we get to work?”

Eskel nodded. Their moment was over, but Geralt wasn’t leaving. He just stood up straight so Eskel could grab his forearms again. It was so much more progress than they’d had in ages, and Geralt couldn’t help the dopey grin on his face. Then, to get to watch Eskel work so _hard_. He couldn’t have been more happy, prouder. All Geralt had to do was stand there, and he got to watch firsthand how far Eskel had come. All he needed was the support, really, and the extra bit of boost at the end to help him straighten his knees.

Standing with half-bent knees wasn’t going to help him but being held up in near-perfect posture was helping. Every day, his legs got stronger.

“You’ll be walking, soon,” Geralt said. “Steps, at least. We could try.”

Immediately, Eskel agreed. A promise was made that Geralt wouldn’t let go of Eskel, wouldn’t have him do anything he wasn’t ready for. All he did was step back until his arms were fully extended, then Eskel just had to make a step. He had all of the support he needed. He just had to do it.

Eskel could hardly raise up his foot, but he shuffled it. He slid it across the wooden floorboards and planted it back down, wobbling slightly as he did. He held onto Geralt’s arms hard enough to leave nail marks in his arms. Geralt kept his own hold loose. He let Eskel make the decisions, find what he needed and take advantage of it. Eskel moved slowly, but he moved. His first foot was firmly planted on the floor, he had support in Geralt’s arms, so he picked up his second foot. Best as he could.

The moment his step was taken, Eskel’s knees gave out. Geralt caught him, but they crumbled together to the floor and _laughed._ Eskel fell into Geralt’s chest, and when he pulled back, he was laughing. Smiling. _Smiling_. The right side of his smile was stiff and drooping, but Geralt found it beautiful. The brightness in Eskel’s eyes—beautiful. Geralt tried to swallow the feelings. He couldn’t cry, anyway, but his eyes still ached. How could they not with Eskel looking _happy_ for once? Smelling overjoyed.

“Geralt.” Eskel’s voice sounded strained as he cupped Geralt’s face in his hands. “You look like you could cry.”

“Never thought I’d see you smile again,” Geralt admitted, threading his hands back through Eskel’s hair. “You took a step, too.”

Eskel hummed and pressed their foreheads together. “I love you, Geralt,” he muttered. “Never stopped.”

Geralt pulled Eskel against him into a loose hug. He kissed the side of Eskel’s face, right over his scars, and stroked back his hair. “Love you, too,” he muttered. “So proud of you.”

Eskel nodded, and for the moment, he was content to let himself be held. It wouldn’t be for long, as a tingling fear was already making its way up his spine, but he could swallow it back down just to have Geralt’s arms around him for a moment. They kissed once more before Geralt helped Eskel back up to his feet—but he made it, and as far as Geralt was concerned, that was another milestone. Eskel got himself off the floor. Geralt got him back into bed afterward, and Eskel finally ate his meal.

Cats were nothing if not resourceful and resilient. Stygga Citadel may have faced a siege of desperate and paranoid kinds, and that may have ended in the death of many Witchers, but things progressed as they always had. Those of the upcoming class who hadn’t died in the siege were ready to face the Trial of the Dreams on the night of the winter solstice. The whole day was spent in preparation for it—the remaining mages worked with the potions while the Witchers, themselves, worked on the rest.

Wolves may have been solitary and lone creatures, especially when it came to the Trials, but the Cats were not. Despite the craze among them, they practiced in much more communal ways. Some of them even traveled together out of pure habit, especially the older ones, but this was where it all began. The Grasses were a solitary thing because there was no other way for them to be, but the Dreams were much different. Before the sun had even reached its midday point in the sky, the middle of the new Cat camp had been cleared out for the evening festivities.

There was a large fire to be lit when the sun went down and settled around it were cots for the newest to-be-born Witchers. They would undergo the trial together, and then the great bacon of a fire would be lit. All through the camp was wafting the grand smell of the feast the other Cats would partake in while they awaited the newest to join them.

Emiel trailed along at Aiden’s side while Aiden showed him all of the food being prepared, all of the mages’ work. They had no proper laboratory to work in, anymore, but a good deal of their supplies had been rescued from the citadel. They had no issue with being watched, and it was quite the thing to see. While over their weeks here, Emiel had taken _less_ to latching himself onto Aiden’s hip and more to exploring about on his own, there wasn’t much for him to do. Many of the younger recruits had been killed in the siege. The ones who had survived were wary of Emiel, and understandably so.

“See that big boar they’re roasting?” Aiden asked, dropping into a squat so he could better point it out. “That’s what I like to eat. Real fucking good. You’re gonna like it—better than rabbit.” He nudged Emiel in the side, but Emiel didn’t respond. He was fidgeting with his medallion and glancing around.

“You good, kiddo?” Aiden tilted his head. He took all of it in—the medallion twitching, Emiel’s nervous look, and figured something had happened of which he hadn’t told Aiden. Which was fine. Emiel was his own person. Aiden wasn’t his mom. Aiden was probably no better at this point than an annoying babysitter. Emiel didn’t have to tell him anything. Aiden didn’t want to be his mom, anyway. Maybe a friend. Whatever worked.

“They stare at me,” Emiel muttered. “Keep making talk about my medallion. Someone _spit_ at me.”

Aiden frowned. “Who?”

“That asshole who called you names.”

Aiden snorted. Emiel had certainly picked up some _more_ new words being in this camp. “Brehen _is_ an asshole, and you shouldn’t listen to a thing he has to say. None of the Witcher schools like each other anyway.” Aiden shrugged, then stood up. “Wear that thing proud, you got it?”

Emiel smiled. “Get a Cat one too, won’t I?”

Aiden nodded. “Sure as fuck you will. Can’t see why you won’t pass the trials, no way. Not with how stupid stubborn you are.” He ruffled his hand through Emiel’s hair and had him laughing. Aiden smiled. “Come on, let’s go look at the food instead of help cook it.”

Emiel was more than happy to agree, and his arms went right up so Aiden could carry him. Aiden _knew_ he shouldn’t be carrying around Emiel. Not with his size, his age, and the fact that he was more than capable of walking around on his own, but he couldn’t help himself. He got Emiel situated on his hip, then began their walk around the festivity’s preparation.

“What’s going on even?” Emiel asked.

“Getting ready for one of the trials.”

Emiel hummed. “Am I going to go through trials?”

Aiden nodded. “Later. Start eating nasty shit when you’re ten. When you hit fifteen, they _really_ fuck you up. Turn your eyes yellow, make you super strong. Though,” Aiden looked at Emiel, shifting him higher up on his hip, “bet you’ll pass that one easy. That’s the one that kills people.”

Emiel’s eyes went a little wide.

“Both your parents already went through it, so chances are you already got some of that stuff going through your little baby body.” Aiden poked Emiel’s forehead. “You’ll be fine. Get here when you’re eighteen—this is the Trial of the Dreams. Last part before they make you take a test and kick you out.”

Aiden took Emiel on the full tour to show off all the food being made, the potions being prepared. He explained all of it in whatever depth he could remember. Emiel would know exactly what he would face in the future, and maybe that would help him, maybe not. It gave Aiden something to talk about while they walked around. With the new set up of the camp, Emiel was more than happy to spend his day up on Aiden’s hip. Change was not exactly Emiel’s friend, but Aiden was glad to have him.

When the night fell sometime early enough that it might have still be considered evening, the bonfire was lit. All of the Cats in the camp gathered around, and it was as if a switch had been flipped. With the fire roaring, the smell of food hanging in the air with the ripe scent of spirits in the air, it was time for a party. The few trainees who had survived—three of them, Aiden said, out of what had been a class of fifteen at the beginning—were gathered around the bonfire and laid down for their rest.

Aiden had Emiel hoisted all the way up on his shoulders so he could see over the Witchers and the mages and know what was going on. Already, in the background, music had started to play. Brehen may have been nothing short of an asshole, but he knew how to pluck the strings better than almost anyone in the school, and he proved it. The tune was lively, jaunty, and played out loud as the mages provided the potions to the newest trainees.

Emiel folded up his arms on Aiden’s head and leaned over, his eyes wide with wonderment. He watched as, one by one, the trainees went to sleep. Two boys and one girl, eyes closed, and the fire roaring behind them. More potions with loud, hollering whooping in the back. Aiden was laughing, and Emiel just kept smiling. It was so _different_ , and once the final potion had been administered, other Witcher musicians joined Brehen in his perky little tune.

“Alright!” Aiden cheered, “Let’s go get you some food, yeah?”

“What are they doing?” Emiel asked, voice high and bright. “Why are they sleeping?”

“That’s the Trial of the Dreams, kiddo,” Aiden said, stepping away from the crowd. “They go to sleep and face some dark shit, but they get to do it together. Come on.”

He let Emiel down and ushered him off towards the food. They weaved their way through happy Cats, dancing and shouting and singing. There was food to be had, spirits to drink. They were all creative enough to come up with games and games galore, though much of it would no doubt devolve into something obscene and degenerate that no child needed to be a part of. Food, first, and Aiden took Emiel right over to the large feast table to get him something to eat.

There were other Witchers surrounding the table, so Aiden left Emiel to the side while he squeezed through to get them food. Emiel, who was so completely taken with the openness, the _fun_ , didn’t stay where Aiden had left him. While the Cats had been wary of him when he arrived, it was only because he wore his Wolf’s medallion so brazenly around his neck. Once they had all learned the truth, that he was just a normal kid wearing something he’d gotten from his Mother, everything had changed.

Mathias and Hagen were standing right off to the side of the feast table, two surviving kids from Stygga who were _more_ than excited to yank on Emiel’s arms as he approached and pull him off. They were each just a bit younger than him, but he would be training with them come the spring. Until then, Emiel got to exist and to explore and to play while they continued to train through the cold days. The winter solstice was a day where nobody trained.

“Emiel—Emiel,” Hagen grabbed onto him first, smiling _wide_. She had dusty blonde hair and almond shaped eyes, freckles spattered over her baby-fat cheeks. “We’ve gotten a _ball_. You’ve got to come and play with us!”

“We’re not playing with that stupid ball,” Mathias argued. “We should do something else.”

Emiel laughed. “Knowing you, you want to hit each other with toy swords.”

Mathias looked sheepish, like he’d been caught. He had raven hair, scrappy over his forehead, and dark brown eyes. While Hagen was pale, Mathias was dark with pink lips and white teeth.

“Doesn’t hurt to kick a ball around,” Hagen argued, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, Emiel, let’s go and _play_ —” Before Hagen could get her way and drag Emiel off, Mathias in defeated tow, another voice rose up from one of the nearby tables.

With a deep and rumbling laugh, an older Witcher turned on his bench, a pint of ale in hand, and looked at the children. “You’re that Emiel I keep hearing about, are you?”

At that moment, Aiden reappeared looking less worried than he ought to, considering how he’d had to search for Emiel, and bearing food. He took up a free seat at the table and just munched away as he listened.

“That’s me,” Emiel said, suddenly nervous. He did what he always did when he was nervous—clutched at his medallion hard enough that the points of it dug into his fingertips.

“Why you not bring him by earlier?” The Witcher turned to Aiden, smacking him upside the head. Aiden just groaned and swallowed down a chunk of meat.

“Getting around to it,” he muttered, mouth full.

“Name’s Crax,” he said. “Train some of the little ones around here, so I suspect I’ll see you soon.” Then, Crax pointed off behind him to other Cat instructors. There were less of them now, but there were less trainees, as well. A good portion of them had died at Stygga.

“We’re supposed to be having fun!” Mathias interrupted. “Not talking about training. Blah. We can train tomorrow.”

Crax laughed. “That one’s got a fucking mouth on him, eh? Alright, alright—we won’t worry about it. You, though,” Crax leaned over his knees and pointed straight to Emiel. “You, I got to talk to. Tomorrow, find out how good you are so we know how rough to treat you.” Then, he leaned away and threw his head back with a laugh. “Until then, we drink!” He toasted his pint to no one in particular, then chugged it fast enough that half of it spilled down the sides of his face.

Aiden snickered, then ushered Emiel closer so he could finally get some food in his belly. Hagen and Mathias lingered close by while Emiel ate, and while Emiel ate, Aiden’s eyes were elsewhere. One of the mages was certainly eying him, and he couldn’t help but eye back. She was cute for her age, and though there were clear wrinkles beginning to show around her mouth, she wasn’t exactly _ancient_. Not like some magic users were. She must have been newer; Aiden didn’t recognize her, but he could _smell_ her for what she was—a wanton omega looking for a bed partner for the night.

“Gonna go off and play, kid?” Aiden asked, shifting his attention back to Emiel.

“Gonna,” Emiel replied. “You gonna run off?”

Aiden smirked. “Yeah, definitely. Enjoy yourself, yeah? See you in the hut.” Aiden leaned over to plant a messy kiss on Emiel’s temple, which had him squealing. Then, after downing a quick drink, Aiden got up.

The hut was what they’d taken to calling the large tent where the majority of them slept. Aiden and Emiel shared a bedroll, but they wouldn’t for long. Aiden would leave, come the warmer weeks, and Emiel would stay to have it all to himself. Crax’s interruption was a reminder that the Cats weren’t all fun and games. Emiel would be training, and from how Crax had spoken, he wouldn’t be enjoying any of it. Just as the Wolves had had high expectations, so did the Cats.

Aiden stepped away from the table, then, and he waltzed right up to the mage who’d been staring him down. He made no play of it, no show, and just took her by the hips until she was falling into him. With hands in his hair, she kissed him. Plenty of eyes were on them, then—alphas who could pick up the scent of two omegas suddenly on each other, but they didn’t stick around to be the new centerpiece of the festival. Aiden dragged her off somewhere else, and the party continued.

Left to his own devices, Emiel scarfed down his food fast enough to feel an ache in his stomach before he was dashing off to join Hagen and Mathias in a game. All around them, the festivities continued. There was music playing, people dancing, people _kissing_. Snow was beginning to fall over the scene, but the night was far from over. Until the trainees all woke up, the Cats would sing and dance and drink. Come morning, the trainees would go straight to their final trial to be sent out in the spring, and the rest of them would go right back to the _work_.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: explicit sexual content (consensual)
> 
> ahHHHH late upload i'm so sorry. for all those who worried there would be no update this week fear not, i'm just easily distracted by shiny objects and errands

Winter had melted under a nice spring sun by the time Aiden soothed his horse to a stop right outside of that cute little cottage. Roach was in the stable, though she was just different enough that Aiden could clearly tell she was a _new_ Roach. Laundry hung out to dry on a string between two trees, close together. Along with the still-melting mounds of muddy snow, the house looked exactly the same as it had when Aiden left it. He was glad to be back, and even more so when the door opened before he could even dismount his horse.

No doubt having sensed his arrival, Geralt exited the cottage and found a place to lean up against the wooden walls as Aiden led his horse to the stable. Geralt waited for him to get situated, arms cross and face about as neutral as ever. He had a goatee, now, instead of the full scruffy beard he’d nearly been sprouting when Aiden had left. Aiden, on the other hand, had hair that was just growing out longer. He kept it half-tied up in a tail on the back of his head to keep it out of his eyes, but the rest of it rested on his shoulders.

“When you gonna build a second stall on here?” Aiden asked, approaching Geralt with saddle bags thrown over his shoulder.

“Never. You don’t live here,” Geralt replied, deadpanned.

Aiden snorted in response. “Might as well.” He gestured towards the door, and Geralt went for it. He opened it up, ushering Aiden inside, then stepping in behind him to close the door again.

The inside of the cottage was much the same, as well, only the floors weren’t scattered with child’s toys. They likely never would be, again. The only chance Emiel had of seeing his parents again before his official cast off onto the Path was if the caravan moved close enough to allow it—and it was a caravan. Before Aiden left, Guxart had confirmed it. Each traveling Witcher was given a xenovox so they could locate the caravan, lovingly named Dyn Marv, whenever the need arose.

“Emiel?” Geralt asked, then. Out of nowhere, really, but when Aiden turned to look at him, there was worry written all over his features. Geralt had been sitting on that eloquent question for weeks.

“Oh, he’s great,” Aiden said. “Got to Stygga Citadel to find it’d be completely destroyed, so we found the rest of the Cats, and I just left him there.” Aiden shrugged.

Geralt frowned something dark and folded his arms. The way it made his muscles ripple did not go unnoticed, but Aiden just snorted out a laugh.

“Really, Geralt? You think that’s true?” Aiden dug around in his bag for his brand new xenovox and tossed it over to Geralt. “They’re caravanning now. Figured no sense in setting up another base if it’s about to get destroyed. With that, can find them whenever the fuck we need. Don’t look like such a mother hen.”

Geralt inspected the rounded object, then tossed it right back to Aiden. It had alleviated his concerns for the moment. He didn’t like the idea of Emiel just being _left_ somewhere, but Aiden took that time to catch Geralt up on everything that had happened. He talked about what happened to Stygga, about the caravan where he tactfully left out how Emiel fit in too well and had already picked up some nasty language. He told Geralt about Emiel’s new friends, too.

“What’s with the sour look?” Aiden asked. “Sad that your boy was having fun?”

Geralt shook his head. “Thinking about my own friends. The ones I left at Kaer Morhen.” Geralt grunted. “Don’t even know if they’re alive, anymore. And then—” he stopped, realizing all but too late that he was rambling about something a bit too personal for his own tastes. Aiden was looking at him strangely, expectantly.

“One of the Witchers,” Geralt muttered. “An older one. Raised me, practically. Gave me my name, trained me—”

“Like your dad,” Aiden supplied, and Geralt nodded. That’s exactly what it was like.

“Don’t know if he’s alive either.”

Aiden grimaced. He didn’t know what to say in return to that, so he quickly changed the subject. “Figured since I’ve been gone so long, I’ll take first shift, and you can go out and stretch your Witcher senses a bit, hm?”

Geralt offered a weak smile. “Eskel’s heat is coming soon, anyway. Wants me out of the house, as you know.”

Aiden nodded. “Wouldn’t want you here, anyway. Bet your cock smells with how often you don’t get to use it.” Aiden laughed when Geralt swatted at him, then slapped back. When the ruckus stopped and Aiden found control of himself again, still smiling, he continued. “You’re okay with it, right? Eskel was talking about me, like, getting involved with the whole thing.”

“Thought you said you weren’t going to fuck my omega.” But Geralt clearly smirked.

“Wasn’t going to. Now that the option’s on the table, wanna just make sure you’re okay with it. Someone else sleeping with your mate, I mean. Kinda rough.”

Geralt shook his head. “Won’t be. You’re not an alpha, so it won’t hurt him. Rather he be comfortable than with me.”

Aiden swallowed hard. That sounded like it meant something more than what they were talking about. Like Geralt would give Eskel up forever if it meant Eskel would be happy—that couldn’t be what Eskel wanted, though. Not what either of them wanted, but the hesitancy still showed on Geralt’s face with prevalence. This was something he’d been thinking about, and Aiden was sure Eskel had some equally unfavorable thought to match it. They were so good at not talking.

Then, suddenly: “Eskel’s been working on taking steps, too,” Geralt said.

“Oh, that’s fucking fabulous.” Aiden clapped his hands together. “Love it. What a soldier. Can’t wait to go and talk to him.”

“You’ve been good for him,” Geralt said. “He let me help him while you were gone. Nice to touch him again, you know?”

Aiden shook his head. “Not an alpha, so not really, though I do know how nice it is touch an omega. We’re just so fucking wonderful, aren’t we?” Aiden smirked and rested his head in his hands, elbows floating in the air to support his head.

Geralt rolled his eyes and offered a tired but fond smile. “Why don’t you go on and see him? Need to pack if I’m to leave in the morning.”

Aiden offered a salute. “Just don’t go too far. Looking to get my own steel a bit wet this year, yeah?”

With that said, Aiden left his bags and supplies sitting on the eatery table and went straight for Eskel’s door, like he was excited to announce he was back. Eskel no doubt already knew he was, but Aiden was nothing if not a petulant little child at heart. He didn’t even bother with knocking, this time, and just burst right into Eskel’s line of sight, letting the door rumble shut behind him.

Eskel’s room hadn’t changed, but neither had he. His hair was back to being relatively short, cut about chin length if not a big longer. In a red shirt and a loose pair of pants, actually sitting cross-legged on the bed instead of tucked beneath the blankets, Eskel had a book laid open out in front of him. The door bursting open had shocked him from his place when he looked up, but his look of horror and panting breath disappeared quickly at the sight of Aiden—still dressed up tightly in his leather vest and gauntlets, arms on display for all to see.

“I’m back!” Aiden cheered, spreading his hands in the air like they were meant to be miniature fireworks in his celebration.

“Welcome. Tell me everything.”

Aiden scoffed fondly, but he wormed his way over to the side of the bed to plop down in front of Eskel, the book forgotten. It was a book of poetry, because Eskel liked that sort of thing. Once there, Aiden spilled all of the information he’d given Geralt. It boiled down to one simple fact: Emiel was doing _fine_. Grand, even. Aiden had no doubts that Emiel would find himself a home among the Cats. He already had friends, after all. He already had the mettle to be one.

“Telling me my eight-year-old suggested you punch someone in the face?” Eskel drawled.

“Actually, he’s nine, now,” Aiden said, picking at his fingernails. “But yeah. Bastard deserved it. Emiel’s doing great.”

Eskel still smiled softly. “Glad to hear it,” he said.

Aiden just smiled back. Eskel and Geralt were good at hiding things by nature of their upbringing and mutagens. Wolf mutagens purposefully dulled the emotions, but not enough to keep either one of them from being downright stupid. Aiden could see they both missed Emiel. Sending him away had been difficult and knowing he wouldn’t be coming back for some exorbitant amount of time was frankly unfathomable.

“Geralt said your heat’s starting soon?” Aiden asked.

Eskel nodded, suddenly flushing. He rested his head in his hand, covering his mouth. That was a clear _don_ _’t want to talk about it_ , but Aiden still smiled and shifted closer.

“Am I _helping_ this time?” Aiden asked. Daringly, he stroked his hand along Eskel’s thigh.

Eskel just watched it, making no move to push Aiden’s touch away. He didn’t speak, either. He just nodded. Then, he jolted as Aiden’s hand moved from his thigh to his hand, peeling it away from his mouth so Aiden could cup his chin. Aiden had that smirk on his face, the one he always wore when he was about to do something he really shouldn’t be doing. It was the only warning Eskel got before Aiden was kissing him. Eskel’s eyes went wide, and before he could even _process_ the feeling of Aiden’s lips on his, Aiden was pulling back.

“You got anything pretty to wear for me?” Aiden asked, suddenly scrambling out of the bed.

Eskel stared at him, unsure of what to say. His lips were tingling. He hadn’t _ever_ kissed anyone other than Geralt and was nearly ashamed that it felt so nice. Geralt hadn’t kissed anyone else, either, as far as he knew. It was nice to kiss him, but Eskel was suddenly wondering if Aiden just had _experience_. Might it have made things a little better.

“Is Geralt—?”

“He’s great,” Aiden cut in, already shifting through Eskel’s chest of drawers. “I asked, don’t worry. Totally fine with what we’re doing in here. Honestly,” and Aiden laughed, “wouldn’t mind if he joined us one day.”

Eskel gulped.

“Not like, anything, you know?” Aiden looked over at Eskel. “Assuming that you actually want to fuck him again in your life, might be a steppingstone to at least have him in the _room_.”

Eskel nodded. “Maybe, just not. Not anytime soon. It’s hard to be around him.”

Aiden nodded, shoving a drawer shut and opening another one. “Wouldn’t force it on you, just an idea. Love you two, but really not looking to join the pack, yeah? Not looking for an alpha. Just looking for a fun time. Friends, good food, good ale. That sorta thing—” then, Aiden stopped. His eyes went wide.

Eskel looked at him, clearly expecting him to have continued, but his breath had caught up in his throat in such a strange way. Suddenly, Aiden was pulling something out of Eskel’s drawer, and it _looked_ like a poorly made sword hilt.

“Why you hiding this in here?” Aiden asked, showing it off to Eskel. Eskel just shook his head—he’d never seen it before.

Aiden left without a word, shoving his way out the door and returning almost fast enough that the door hadn’t had time to shut. He had Geralt in tow, dragged along by a tight hold on his wrist. Once Geralt was in the room, looking appropriately confused, Aiden let him go. By then, the door had closed, and Aiden had the sword hilt shoved into Geralt’s hands.

“What is it?” Aiden asked.

Geralt stared at it for a long, long moment. Neither he nor Eskel knew why Aiden was making such a spectacle about what he’d found in the drawer, but Aiden was nothing if not clever. There was no reason for something like that to be in Eskel’s room, and there certainly wasn’t any reason for something like that to exist. It was old, but it was saturated with Geralt’s scent. Years beneath clothes that Eskel hardly ever wore wasn’t enough to get rid of that, so Aiden had made the assumption that Geralt was involved.

He was. Geralt recognized the hilt, and he thought back on the memory with fondness. He, Gweld, and Gardis had been holed up in that room for the entire evening, spitting facts back and forth and arguing about who was right, who was wrong, and who was just plain stupid. Studying by the fire while the winter raged outside had made for a pleasant evening, and during that time, Geralt had carved this. He knew now just how awful it really was, and he’d never tried for a second time. But it’d at least kept him focused, at the time.

“Made it myself,” Geralt said. “Threw it in my bag and never thought about it again, so it made it on the escape.”

“But what _is_ it?” Aiden pressed.

“Badly made sword hilt, what does it look like?” Geralt frowned, but then softened and looked at Eskel. “Studying one night with Gweld and Gardis. Needed to keep my hands busy. Had a lot of hope you’d be out of bed one day, sword in hand.” Geralt shrugged.

Eskel looked shocked and melted in awe all at once, like Geralt’s meager explanation had shattered his heart and stitched it back together in one swift movement. “You wanted me to train again?”

“Course I did. You make one hell of a Witcher.” Geralt’s tone was serious; he made no habit of mincing words. “Never gave up that dream about us on the Path together.”

With how poorly Eskel could still move, he’d never once considered it a viable possibility. Geralt had never talked about it, either, always respectfully keeping his distance. A year ago, Eskel hadn’t even seen himself ever getting out of bed. A year before, he’d never seen himself out of Kaer Morhen. Every day, he was proved wrong, and this seemed like the next sign. If Geralt believed so strongly that they could still walk the Path together, then maybe Eskel should try.

Aiden suddenly perked up. “Had to get special approval for Emiel to join us,” he said, “so I told them as much of the story as I could.”

“Who’s _them_?” Geralt asked.

“Treyse and Guxart—they’re like, the leaders of the school. Surely, the Wolves didn’t just run around sniffing each other’s asses.” Aiden snorted. “Anyway, told them about Eskel. Seemed interested.”

“In me?” Eskel had to clarify. That didn’t sound right. How would that even work? Emiel starting fresh made sense, because he hadn’t undergone any of the trials yet. Eskel had. He’d already experienced the Trial of the Grasses. How could he just swap schools?

“Yeah, in you. Don’t know how the whole swap around would work.” Aiden shrugged. “Worth a shot. Not like the Dreams kill you or anything. The test might, though.” Aiden snickered.

“Bring you back swords,” Geralt said, suddenly. “I know of a swordsmith in Novigrad who would be willing to make me something special, if I can find the right materials.”

“Geralt—” Eskel stopped himself. He _wasn_ _’t_ going to tell Geralt not to do that. It would be expensive, sure, but Geralt’s eyes were practically sparkling. His pupils were blown, looking at Eskel. Imagery of that dream was passing by in his irises. Walking the Path with Eskel was all he’d ever wanted to do. Doing it as _mates_ was even better. Even if it had just been a silly hope as boys without a knowhow in the world, Geralt still wanted it. He clung to it.

“Thank you,” Eskel quickly amended. He didn’t have anything else to say, nothing that he could muster words for. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow down, and he didn’t trust himself to speak again. Not with the way Geralt smiled at him, like he was the world, the moon, and the sun. Like he was perfect.

“Leaving in the morning.” Geralt walked around Aiden, the bed, and came up to Eskel’s side. “Do you need anything else?”

“Just you to come back,” Eskel said. They fell into each other—practiced, and so disgustingly in love that Aiden couldn’t help but grimace when they kissed. Still, he smiled. He knew how hard the road was they’d traveled, and their reward was just the ability to share a kiss. It was such a little thing for how far they’d come, so Aiden let them have it.

When they parted, Geralt left the room to continue his preparations for leaving. He left the poorly made wooden hilt right there, and Aiden snatched it from the bed. It felt like it was important, somehow. Too important to thrust back into the chest of drawers and forget about. Instead, Aiden propped it up on top of the chest where Eskel would be able to see it. Likened to a reminder, a monument even to Eskel’s decision, it sat right there as a centerpiece.

“There,” Aiden said, stepping back. Then, he looked at Eskel. “Could even start now, you know. Don’t need swords to start. Sure you remember how to do signs? Maybe you need to brush up on your monster facts.”

“Could start there.” Eskel agreed. “Geralt has all of those extra notes he wrote out for Emiel. Could even go over them to make sure he’s not mistaken.”

Aiden snickered. “Doubt he is. Bet it’s all perfect, but we can start there. Go over it, see what you remember.”

That sounded just about as agreeable as anything else. Aiden clearly looked ready to rip Geralt’s notes apart, but Eskel believed in Aiden’s doubt. Geralt’s notes were impeccable. They had to be. Geralt was impeccable. He’d always been the best student at Kaer Morhen, and despite the high hopes there had been for Emiel and Eskel’s other children, Eskel still didn’t think any of them would shine a light on Geralt.

A sudden sweet, _sweet_ smell roused Aiden from where he’d been sleeping in Emiel’s old bed. Aiden knew exactly what it was the moment the scent hit his nose. Eskel’s heat. His beautiful, aching heat—Aiden had smelled it before. Never let himself feel so good about it, either: being around another omega in heat. As long as he took his potions, Aiden would never succumb to a heat, no matter _how_ wonderful Eskel smelled. Heats could set off other heats—it wasn’t exactly hidden knowledge. Aiden just always had more fun if he wasn’t _also_ losing his mind.

He hurried out of bed, not bothering to fix it as he pulled the blankets off with him. They pooled on the floor as Aiden tore his way out of the room and rounded the corner of the house. As he neared Eskel’s door, the smell was all that stronger. Familiar, but somehow _potent_. Eskel knew exactly what this time entailed, and he was nothing if not excited. Aiden could smell it. For a flat moment, he even wished Geralt could smell this, know what it was he could _have_.

That was cruel, though, and Aiden couldn’t think a moment longer about Geralt. Not once he was inside of Eskel’s room, closing the door behind him, and the sight assaulted him just as much as the smell. Eskel couldn’t have been awake for long, but his heat had hit sometime in the night. He was still fully clothed, but the blankets were all pushed back, and he was practically writhing where he lay. He reacted to Aiden’s presence, immediately, shifting to look down at him.

Aiden looked hungry, but it was a kind of hungry that couldn’t possibly make Eskel afraid. Aiden smelled like Aiden. Neutral enough because of the potions he took, but familiar enough that Eskel knew he was okay. He was friendly. He was here to _help_ , and Eskel so desperately needed help. He shifted, trying to find the coordination to get something off of him, but it all just ended in a pained gasp.

“Aiden—” Eskel breathed. “Aiden, _fuck,_ please. Hurts. Hot. Can’t get all this stuff off—” he broke off in another pained groan as he shifted in the bed, spreading his legs wider.

Hurrying, Aiden crossed the room and all but threw himself onto the bed. He climbed up, planting himself right in Eskel’s lap where he could _feel_ Eskel’s cocklet already straining against the confines of his pants. It made Aiden shiver. Eskel was sizable, for an omega, so much more than Aiden was packing. Aiden all but tore at his shirt to get it off, ripping it over Eskel’s head and tugging it past the point he got tangled. Once the shirt was on the floor, Aiden hunched over, cupping Eskel’s face, and kissed him. Hard.

Eskel moaned into the kiss, hips bucking and back arching. He found purchase in Aiden’s hair, tugging at the roots and ripping his half-tail right out. When Aiden’s hair fell free down around him, Aiden pulled back to finally catch his breath. All that had Eskel doing was whining, hips arching again to grind himself up into Aiden. The friction alone was nearly enough to have him coming, right there. Already so much, too much. He gasped when Aiden pressed down on his chest.

“Smell so fucking good,” Aiden panted out. “What do you want from me?” Aiden grabbed Eskel’s tits and squeezed them between his fingers, ripping another moan straight from Eskel’s throat. Eskel may have not liked that his tits had never really gone away, but Aiden was more than happy to show him why it was such a good thing. So many pregnancies tended to do that, anyway. Might as well find the positives.

“Anything,” Eskel gasped. “ _Everything_.”

Aiden swiped his thumbs at Eskel’s nipples and had him shivering, trembling right down to his fingertips. Without a second to spare, Aiden ducked down to mouth along Eskel’s collarbone, over his neck. He inched down, slowly, and only moved his left hand away when he could replace it with his mouth, lapping over Eskel’s pert little nipple. Eskel shuddered, cried out as the feeling took him. Aiden nipped at him, teeth into his sensitive flesh, and _moaned_ when Eskel’s hand jolted up to his hair and pulled.

“Aiden, Aiden—” Eskel panted. “Quit it— _fuck_ , I need. Need—” He couldn’t manage the words, just another loud cry as Aiden bit down in the soft flesh of his breast. Aiden went immediately for his right nipple, then, returning his hand to Eskel’s left where he rubbed saliva into the skin. The cold air left the nub hard and erect, and Aiden pinched it. Eskel was practically shaking. He spread out his legs further, like he might try to _entice_ —but Aiden was no alpha.

The smell alone could have knocked an alpha off their feet, but Aiden just moaned. He rolled his hips down into Eskel’s, feeling the thick of Eskel’s cocklet between his thighs. Trousers were such a thin covering; Aiden could feel Eskel through the folds of his own cunt, and for the shortest second, Aiden thought what it might be like to sit on Eskel’s cocklet—but this wasn’t about him. This was about Eskel. He ignored his own growing arousal in turn for slinking further down Eskel’s body.

“ _Hurts_ ,” Eskel gasped. “Aiden— _please_.”

“What do you want?” Aiden asked again, significantly more composed than Eskel. Painfully slow, Aiden began to undo Eskel’s laces. “Don’t know what you like.”

Eskel sucked down a deep breath, then panted, shaking his head. “Don’t—don’t wanna talk,” he muttered, suddenly trying to roll over. All at once, he plummeted, breathing hard and closing his eyes. So many of those alphas at Kaer Morhen had made him talk. Made him _beg_ to be raped and slapped and— Suddenly, Aiden’s hand was on his face, and Aiden was close enough that he could smell. It was then that Eskel realized Aiden was off of him altogether, just kneeling beside him and stroking the marred side of his face.

“You’re right here,” Aiden whispered. “Just want to take care of you. Any place I shouldn’t touch?”

That was something Eskel could deal with, a reminder that Aiden cared about him. Aiden didn’t want to hurt him. Aiden was going to show him that a heat wasn’t a _bad_ thing—which was all he wanted. He wanted this to be good so desperately. Good enough that, one day, he could have _Geralt_ back in his bed.

“Just—nothing from the back,” Eskel muttered, shaking his head. He hoped Aiden knew what he meant, but maybe Aiden didn’t. He looked inquisitive, confused.

“Okay to touch your cock?” He asked. Eskel nodded. “And your cunt?” Eskel nodded again. “What about your ass?” Then, Eskel shook his head. Too many times, he’d been told, _hissed at,_ that he was too loose. He remembered being wrenched around, shoulders nearly ripped out of their sockets, so they could force their throbbing cocks somewhere they didn’t belong. Never any cleaning, no preparation—just disgusting, awful, and painful.

“Okay,” Aiden whispered, then he leaned in and pressed a chase kiss against Eskel’s lips. “You’re doing so good,” Aiden told him. “So perfect for me, Red. Gonna touch you, okay?”

Eskel nodded, suddenly keening. He listened to the tone of Aiden’s voice and let it take him, carry him back to the moment. In his own room, in his own bed, and Aiden was slinking back down to finish undoing his laces. The heat was suddenly immense. Eskel gasped at the touch of nothing, spread his legs apart when Aiden started to pull down his trousers. They were dropped right off the side of the bed, and Eskel’s smalls disappeared next.

“Aiden—” Eskel gasped. “Fuck—it hurts. It hurts, _please_ just—”

Aiden shushed him. He wasn’t one for waiting around. Once he was settled nicely between Eskel’s legs, he dragged his touch up along Eskel’s thighs until he could rest on Eskel’s hips. Eskel’s cock was staining, a nice hefty size. The sight of it made Aiden’s mouth water, his throat clench. He couldn’t help himself. The moment Aiden had his lips around Eskel’s cocklet, Eskel cried out. In one go, Aiden sunk all the way to the base. The perfect size; fit right into his mouth.

Aiden moaned around it, lapping along the underside. It had a nice thick base where Aiden pressed down with his lips. He wanted, desperately, to sneak a touch to himself. Work his hand down the front of his breaches and stroke through his cunt, but he restrained himself. He pressed his knees together and slipped fingers between Eskel’s folds. Sopping wet, beautifully swollen already. Aiden trembled, letting his eyes close tight as he sucked over the weight in his mouth.

“Aiden, Aiden, _Aiden_ —” Eskel cried out, his feet scrambling for purchase in the linens. His cries turned to moans, long and breathy as Aiden sucked on him, laved his tongue right over the tip and pressing down. He could taste the sweet, the salty. The dribble of fluid that leaked from the tip.

The taste alone had Aiden shuddering, but then he was rubbing his fingers against Eskel’s swollen cunt, and his own _throbbed_ when Eskel cried out. His name on Eskel’s lips sounded so _desperately_ sweet. Aiden had to taste him. Had to have him. He pulled away from his cock, replacing the wrap of his lips with the wrap of his hand, then ducked down to lap over Eskel’s cunt instead. Eskel’s hips bucked, immediately. Aiden’s fingers swept through him, pulled his labia apart so Aiden could _taste_.

“Fuck—” Eskel cried out, back arching. “Aiden—more, _more_ , please. I need—need you. Oh—fuck,” Eskel writhed where he lay, fingers digging into the sheets.

Aiden’s _tongue_ swiped through him, right over his dripping hole. He felt Aiden’s fingers, the squeeze of Aiden’s hand around the base of his cocklet. Aiden shifting, felt like he was _smirking_ into Eskel’s folds, and pressed his thumb right into the top of the slit. There, he tugged, and something had Eskel shivering. Aiden pulled back his heavy hood, then pressed his lips right against Eskel’s clit. Eskel practically came, right there. His hands flew down to Aiden’s hair, grasping and tugging right at his roots in a way that had Aiden shivering.

Fuck—Aiden could feel it. Eskel was setting him off in all of the best ways possible. He sucked on Eskel’s clit just to hear the way it made him keen, cry out.

“Empty,” Eskel panted. “Empty, Aiden, _empty—_ it hurts. So bad. Fuck, Aiden— _need_ you!”

Aiden rubbed the swollen bud with his tongue, sucked on it as he shifted his fingers down away from Eskel’s prick. He rubbed over Eskel’s hole, instead, spreading open his labia and feeling the slick he poured down. So hot, smelling so _perfect_. Aiden couldn’t get enough of it. Eskel was so wet, produced the kind of slick that only an omega _desperate_ for release would give out. It dripped down from his cunt, over his perineum. One day, Aiden would follow that line with his tongue and busy himself with Eskel’s ass, but for now—he sucked on Eskel’s clit, harder, and finally pressed a finger into him.

Eskel took it beautifully, perfectly. He cried out as Aiden’s finger sunk in deeper, deeper. His fingers were slim, but they were _long_. One crook, and Eskel cried out as a wave of hot pleasure took him. It kept coming and coming until _he_ was coming, a sudden gush of slick from his cunt and some abortive, pathetic spurt of precum right from the tip of his cock. He was shuddering, trembling— _that_ had never happened before. He’d come. Once or twice, here or there. With Geralt. But never like _that_.

Aiden pulled back all at once, and while Eskel whimpered at the loss of lips on his clit, he hardly had a second to be disappointed. Aiden mouthed down his folds, tongue through his slit, until he reached Eskel’s sloppy, quivering hole. He lapped at it, tasting Eskel’s slick right on the tip of his tongue. Aiden was painfully wet, now, but he kept going. He mouthed over Eskel’s hole, pressing his tongue inside along his finger. Eskel spasmed around him, hips bucking and head rolling back.

“Aiden—!” He shouted. He rolled his hips down, grinding on Aiden’s tongue, on his finger.

Once more, Aiden crooked his finger. He knew right where to find that spot inside that left Eskel a drooling, heavy mess. He played with the spot while he lapped inside, working his tongue deeper each time he thrust it forward. He ate at Eskel like he was starved, every shift and movement bumping his nose into Eskel’s clit, rubbing his lips along Eskel’s labia. Eskel’s entire body was shaking, spasming. He clenched down around Aiden as another orgasm took him.

“Fuck, fuck—” Eskel tensed up, closing his eyes tight and biting down on his lip. It washed over him hard, fast, all at once. So many things happening, and then Aiden’s free hand was back around his cock. Stroking him in time with tongue thrusts and crooks of the finger still inside of him. This time, the orgasm didn’t stop. Aiden kept moving—his tongue, his finger, his grip on Eskel’s prick. He wouldn’t stop—pressing closer, harder. Eskel’s orgasm washed over him and it didn’t _stop_.

He was trembling by the time Aiden finally pulled away. His mind was foggy, his eyes glazed. But he was quiet, resting lazily against the pillows as Aiden’s touch disappeared. It was only a moment of clarity, Eskel realized. A moment where the heat died down and he could _breathe_ without feeling like his whole body was on fire.

“Taste fucking amazing,” Aiden slurred, slipping up. His chin was messy with slick, but that didn’t stop him from planting his lips right on Eskel’s.

Eskel moaned into the kiss, tasted himself on Aiden’s lips and _loved_ it. Aiden pressed against him, rolling his hips. It was only then that Eskel realized that Aiden was still dressed. He’d only ever seen Aiden fully dressed. Now, he wanted something different. Desperately, immediately, he started tugging at Aiden’s shirt, shifting his hips like it might mean something about his _trousers_.

“Naked,” Eskel gasped. “Want to see you naked.”

“Fuck.” Aiden was just as breathless. He wanted to ask why it had taken so long to get here, but he knew the answer. This was a steppingstone—progress. He wouldn’t ruin by being needlessly full of himself. Just because _he_ wanted this sooner didn’t mean Eskel did.

Aiden pulled back and scrambled out of his own clothes. He struggled and tangled himself in his sleeves, in the legs of his breeches, but he managed. Before too long, Aiden was kneeling naked beside Eskel. And Eskel, having never even managed the courage to touch himself, reached out to slide his hand along Aiden’s thigh.

“Take it all in.” Aiden chuckled.

“Your cock,” Eskel muttered, and that was all he had to say.

“Yeah, I’m _normal_. You’re the one with the monster.” Then, Aiden snickered. “Though, don’t get too excited. Think you’re still smaller than a beta cock.”

Eskel didn’t even pretend to know what that meant. He clearly didn’t have the experience Aiden did, but he didn’t want it. All he wanted was _this_ , watching Aiden straddle over his hips again and take a seat. Aiden arched his back, _showing off_. He welcomed the touch when Eskel reached for him, hands on his hip, up his side. Aiden even leaned forward so Eskel could palm at his flat chest.

“You like?” Aiden asked, a smirk on his face.

“You’re wet,” came Eskel’s reply. “I can smell it.”

Aiden nodded. “Fuck yeah, I am. How could I not be? Look at you.” Aiden ground his hips down, and then Eskel could _feel_ how wet he was. “Gonna make you feel so good, Eskel.”

“What about you?”

Aiden shook his head. “You don’t worry about that. You worry about you.” He leaned over Eskel, close enough that their breath could mingle. “This is all about you.”

Eskel couldn’t deny that Aiden’s words had him shuddering, had him feeling _good_. He liked feeling wanted, feeling important. The way Aiden kissed him again was no hardship, either. Aiden was rutting against him, and when he slipped away, it was to go right back where he’d been between Eskel’s thighs. Eskel’s heat hadn’t even returned, full force, and Aiden was already licking him open. Eskel didn’t have a word of complaint. He closed his eyes and just let himself _feel_. It felt nice to be taken care of, and the way he shuddered and shook through his orgasms wasn’t bad, either.

Four days went by, and the dawn of the fifth, Aiden roused from where he slept in Eskel’s bed to the sound of rumbling furniture. That was something new and strange, so it woke him right up. It happened in waves, and as Aiden finally pushed himself up, opened his eyes as he groped around for a blanket, he watched a candle from across the room light up on its own before the wave and rumble started again. After that, Aiden was suddenly very, very awake. The mess in the bed, the mess between his own thighs was an afterthought.

He knew that wave. He knew how the candle was lighting and extinguishing. Aiden scrambled up, need for a blanket forgotten. He didn’t care that he was cold or that he was naked—Eskel was still naked, though he had the decency to have a blanket pooled up around his hips. Aiden just popped right up to his hands and knees, watching as another rush spread through the room and shook the chest of drawers.

“Aard!” Aiden shouted. He shouted loud enough that Eskel jolted with surprising, having not noticed Aiden waking up at all. He’d been too caught up in what he was doing. “You’re doing it!”

“Not easy to forget this,” Eskel replied. He blinked, then, “Good morning.”

“And Igni?” Aiden ignored the greeting entirely in turn for scooting closer to Eskel. “Can you do the others? Let me see, let me see!”

“Way too excited,” Eskel muttered, but then he almost _smirked._ He turned his attention to Aiden and signed right in front of him. “Calm down,” he said, and Aiden recognized the sign for Axii almost all too soon.

Aiden burst out into laughter, entirely unaffected. But he’d _seen_ it. “Holy _fuck_ , Red. You—” Aiden couldn’t even muster the words to express his excitement. Instead, he just threw himself at Eskel, arms tight around his shoulders and a big sloppy peck on the cheek. He just squeezed Eskel after that, resting his chin on Eskel’s shoulder. He could feel Eskel twitch beneath his hold, not used to such blatant touch of skin on skin, but he didn’t push Aiden away. Aiden stayed right where he was.

“Yrden next,” Aiden said. “Right out there on the floor. Wanna see you do it.”

Once the trap appeared, Aiden practically squealed. He commanded the next one—Quen—and watched as Eskel did it. The sign was casted on the self, and he could see as the shield formed around Eskel’s body. A minute later, Aiden was falling back on the bed.

“Fucking love it,” Aiden breathed. He stared up at Eskel, and Eskel stared back. Very pointedly, Eskel tried to ignore the fact that Aiden was still entirely bare. Aiden didn’t seem to mind it, but even a single acknowledgment turned Eskel red in the face. He preferred to stay covered, when he could. When the choice presented itself, he always chose clothes. Having not always _had_ that choice, it was nice that he had it now. Nice enough that he could decide not to lounge around naked, though Aiden seemed quite comfortable.

“Have an idea,” Aiden shouted suddenly. He scrambled out of the bed and only barely managed to pull on his—what Eskel now realized were not smalls, but— _panties_ , before he moved around the edge of the bed.

Aiden left Eskel’s clothes on the floor in turn for finding him something fresh to wear out of his chest of drawers. He had a clean pair of smalls, a dull white shirt, and some dark pants. It wasn’t Eskel’s usual pick, but Aiden seemed more in a hurry to just get him dressed than he did to do anything else.

“Have to wash all of this shit now,” Aiden explained, breathlessly. “You’ve been working good with the walking, so maybe? Maybe?” Aiden just shook his head and helped Eskel to the edge of the bed.

“You want me to try to walk?” Eskel clarified, and Aiden nodded.

“I’ll help, but—easier to clean the linens if you’re not in here sitting on them, you know? Gotta get them changed and all. Messy, messy.” Aiden clicked his tongue, and Eskel couldn’t help the quick grin on his face.

“Can’t even get up on my own, yet” Eskel said. “Geralt was helping, but it’s slow work.”

He let Aiden shift him around to dress him, though he slipped the shirt on himself. Once he was dressed, Aiden having entirely ignored his comment, Aiden stepped back and held out his arms. Aiden, apparently, had no real interest in getting dressed. He’d just put his dirty panties back on with intentions to clean _everything_ and bathe himself later. Eskel was hesitant to take Aiden’s arms. Geralt had been working with him, helping him stand and take a few meager steps, but they’d never actually taken a walk. Not one as long as Aiden was suggesting.

With his heat having just ended, Eskel was feeling tired, too. He didn’t trust himself to be able to do this, but Aiden was so excited. He looked so _fond_ , too, happy to see that his friend was doing something more than he ever had before. That was enough to at least give Eskel some hope. If he couldn’t believe in himself, he could believe in how openly and wildly Aiden believed in him. So, he took Aiden’s arms and used the support to get himself out of bed.

Just as always, his legs were shaky, but Aiden was unwavering. He was a rock for Eskel to rest against until he could gather himself well enough to make that first, daring step. Then another, following in shuffles where Aiden took baby steps. But they were _moving_. Eskel noticed it once they’d reached the end of the bed. It’d taken minutes to get here, what a normal person could traverse in a second, but it was the most Eskel had done in a decade.

He’d wasted away in that bed at Kaer Morhen. Wasted away in both mind and body, but these were the steps that would give it all back. He’d already found his resolve to practice the signs again. Next, Aiden would quiz him on facts from the bestiaries. All he needed to do to breech the next step was learning to walk again. To learn to walk again, he needed the strength the muscles he’d lost. A decade of time gone, and in these first few steps, Eskel was sure he could somehow make up for time.

Aiden let go of Eskel once, and only for the briefest moment to get the door open behind him. He never let Eskel fall, and when they needed to stop, they stopped. They stopped and they stood stupidly in the doorway until Eskel felt up to making that next step. But he made it. He made the one after that, too. And another one. Each new step he made had Aiden smiling, eyes brimming with unchecked emotion and joy. It didn’t matter how long it would take them to get to the table, because Aiden would be proud, regardless.

To Eskel, it felt as if hours had passed when he was finally sitting at the table. In reality, it hadn’t even been half of one. Eskel had walked through the entire house, slowly and unsure of himself, but he was sitting at the table. In the middle of the house. He could see all of it, and it’d been so long since he had. The kitchen area, the stove. The door to Emiel’s old room was let open, and Eskel could see inside to the old chest of toys and the adornments on the walls.

“I did it,” Eskel muttered before Aiden could get a word out.

“You did!” Aiden cheered. He dropped down to his knees in front of Eskel, resting on his thighs and smiling. “Now—how do you make a specter take back it’s physical form?” He grinned. Signs and then a quiz, just as Eskel expected.

“Yrden,” he replied, running his fingers back through Aiden’s hair. He had the most impressive bed-head, knots and all. Eskel couldn’t help but want to tame it. “Trap them in it, and you can hit them.”

“Great,” Aiden said. His eyes closed as Eskel plucked through his hair. “Light the oven from here.”

He heard the _woosh_ of the flames as the fire came to life at Eskel’s sign.

“Don’t you have laundry to do?” Eskel asked.

Aiden, who was practically purring in his lap, just hummed in response. He would do laundry _after_ Eskel took care of his hair for him. Before he left, he would even go rummage about for Geralt’s bestiary notes so Eskel could read over them while he was gone. If he could find the alchemy ones, too, he’d go for that. When he returned from laundry, he would be able to go through it all _with_ Eskel and ensure it was correct. Until then, he could rest a moment and enjoy the floaty feeling of Eskel’s fingers through his hair.

One thing was certain—now that Eskel knew he could do this; he wouldn’t stop doing it. Maybe it would be no fast process, but he would walk eventually. He’d hold a sword, after. Relearn his footwork, his technique. Aiden could spar with him. Geralt could, too.

“You know,” Aiden muttered, “you go to the caravan and you can take the Dreams with Emiel. Might be nice.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel frowned. “Geralt told me they took the Dreams alone.”

“Stupid wolves,” Aiden replied. He sounded half-asleep, half-drunk. “Cats take it together. Don’t remember much of it, but it happened. We get you back there—you can train with him. Take the Dreams with him. Maybe even be there when he goes through the Grasses.”

“You think he’ll survive? Sound so sure.”

Aiden grinned, then, right against Eskel’s hip. “That boy of yours—he’ll survive. If he doesn’t, not a one of us should have.”

That had Eskel smiling something soft, right up to his eyes. The thought of Emiel surviving, a Witcher like the rest of them, left him warm. It would be nice to get to train with his son, to be there for him for the trials. Eskel had a goal, but more importantly, he had a plan. He would study and practice his signs while he learned to walk. Once he could walk, he would learn to fight. Even if it took him the next decade, he would do it. In the meantime, Aiden would do laundry. His hair was about as back in order as it ever would be without a brush.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: blood/injury, sexual commentary
> 
> actually remembering to post the chapter today WEARY. it's been a week y'all. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated. remember to support your local writers, too. it's an artform just like painting is.

It was nearing winter in the year that both Geralt and Eskel had turned twenty-five. Emiel would have turned nine in the spring and finally begun his training with the Cats. Aiden had confirmed he would begin in the spring, anyway. It wasn’t a topic they spoke on much; there wasn’t much time to speak on it. Geralt had left after, and Aiden’s focus had turned to Eskel’s sudden new interest in training. When the weather started to turn cold, Geralt set to return to the cottage, where he would winter. Aiden would return to Dyn Marv—the Cats’ caravan.

Aiden smelled Geralt from a mile away, and it wasn’t a _good_ smell, either. He’d been sitting at the table with Eskel, who was still struggling to do things on his own, but with help, was starting to spend less and less time in bed. It was progress, however small. They were looking over Geralt’s notes, passing the time with idly studying like they used to back when they were children, when Aiden perked up at that scent. His eyes went wide, and Eskel looked up at him.

“Aiden? You okay?” Eskel asked.

“Something—” Aiden frowned, then pushed away from the table. “You can’t smell that?”

Eskel sat there in momentary confusion before he picked up on it, too. It was the scent of blood, which wasn’t always unusual, but it was this particular twinge of scent that had Eskel’s eyes widening too.

“Geralt.”

Aiden nodded, then went for his boots. “I’ll go find him. You just—sit tight? I mean—” Where else would Eskel go? Eskel just frowned and gestured out towards the door.

Once Aiden had his boots on and strapped, he went for the door. He didn’t bother with readying or grabbing his horse, and instead just set out on foot through the woods. He could follow the smell better without his own horse masking it. All he could smell was the tang of blood, mixed with what had become so _familiar_ of Geralt. Aiden was worried that he was about to find Roach with a dead man on her back, so he just hurried.

Searching for Geralt took longer than Aiden had thought, but he did eventually pick up on the scent of, not just Geralt, but his horse. A very particular smell, horses. Once he picked it up, Aiden started to run faster. It took him only seconds after that to finally come across Roach. On her back—Geralt. Alive, maybe. Barely. Aiden rushed up to the side of the horse. Geralt was clutching across his chest where his armor had been ripped open by _something_ , and that was where the blood came from.

“Geralt!” Aiden shouted his name as he approached the side.

Geralt couldn’t even muster words. It was by some miracle alone that he was even sitting upright; his free hand was clutched into Roach’s mane instead of her reins. Aiden reached for him, hands on Geralt’s thigh. Geralt didn’t move more than his eyes in a sideways glance. Any movement might send him toppling off the horse.

“Get you home,” Aiden said, quickly. “Just hold on.”

Aiden took hold of Roach’s reins and led her into the forest. She followed faster than she’d been walking, but Aiden could offer an extra hand to keep Geralt from toppling over and into the grass. They had to get back to the cottage quickly. There was no time for anything—just the panic, the fear. This was the last thing Eskel needed in his life, to see what looked to be Geralt minutes from _death_. The only reason he wasn’t dead yet was likely potions.

There was a blackness around Geralt’s eyes, tendrils down his cheeks, that said he was full of them. Potions. Whichever ones he’d managed to swallow down to slow the bleeding and help the healing process. The wound was bad enough that potions wouldn’t fix him. A famed Witcher’s healing would hardly help, either. He needed proper bed rest. It was no short of on time, then. It was nearly winter, which meant Geralt was due back. Aiden was supposed to leaving for Dyn Marv within the month. Geralt was just supposed to come back alive.

There would be time for anger later. The return trek to the cottage was slow, painful, but they made it. Geralt hadn’t fallen off the horse, either. He managed to stay propped up, though he leaned on her neck heavily for support. By the time they came to a stop, hope was holding Geralt up. Aiden was quick to his side, giving him somewhere to finally just fall off Roach’s back. Geralt was larger than Aiden; there was no disputing that, as much as Aiden maybe didn’t like remembering his own size.

He wasn’t short, by any means. Not in comparison to people who truly were short. It was just in comparison to Geralt, Aiden only reached his chin. That didn’t account for size, either, where Geralt’s muscle was practically massive. Aiden still managed to hold him up, and that was what mattered. Roach could be dealt with later. For the moment, Aiden just dragged Geralt into the cottage. And it was dragging. Geralt’s legs hardly worked, though he tried.

Energy wasn’t on Geralt’s side. As Aiden dragged him through the middle of the house, Eskel’s eyes were suddenly on them. Eskel couldn’t even manage to say anything—just stare, his eyes wide. His hands were curled into fists at the table. Though Geralt saw him, met his eyes, he still couldn’t manage a word. He just allowed himself to be dragged on, straight into Emiel’s old room. His room, now, because he still couldn’t share one with Eskel.

“Fuck,” Aiden groaned. He finally got Geralt down, though it was a wrestle to get him into bed. He had to haul Geralt’s legs up one at a time. “What the _fuck?_ _”_

Still, there was no response. Aiden just shook his head and groaned. Immediately, he began tearing Geralt’s armor from him. He started with the boots, then the straps of his weapons. After his gloves, he started to get the chest piece off of him. It would need some extensive repair. Geralt might even be better off going into town to get new armor from a local blacksmith, though Aiden had a feeling he was fond of this Wolf’s gear. It had to go. The pauldrons, the pants. All of it.

When Geralt was down to his smalls, Aiden finally sat down at the side of the bed to look at the wound. It wasn’t quite as bad as the blood spatter on the armor made it look, but it wasn’t good, either. Aiden chewed on his bottom lip. Just the touch had Geralt hissing through his teeth.

“You fucked up real good,” Aiden muttered. “Gonna get stuff to clean you up—don’t, well. Guess you can’t go anywhere.”

Geralt snorted, which was a good sign. At least, Aiden hoped it was. He stepped out of the room and left the door ajar, stopping only to exchange a worried glance at Eskel. Aiden didn’t say anything, he just moved around the cottage to gather the things that he needed. He needed hot water, which he set up on the stove, and he needed a rag. He needed swallow—the potion. He needed salve. He needed to _make_ these things; there wasn’t time to go into town to spend coin. There was hardly time to make it all from scratch, either

“Aiden,” Eskel called for him.

Aiden didn’t listen. Not at first. He went around the middle of the cottage and just gathered the things he needed. They kept a hefty supply of herbal ingredients around the cottage. Tucked away in the corner was an alchemist set to _brew_ the potions. All Aiden needed for the salve was the pestle and mortar.

“Aiden,” Eskel said again, firmer this time.

Once Aiden had the things he needed, he piled them on the table and continued to ignore Eskel. He went back to the oven, after that, to watch the water. As if that was going to make it boil faster. He really didn’t need it to boil. He just needed it warm, but he wasn’t about to stick his finger in it to find out what the temperature was. Waiting for it to boil was easier, so he did. He folded his arm across his chest, rested his other arm on it, and held his head up.

“Aiden!” Eskel _shouted_ for him, this time, and it was enough to make Aiden jolt.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just—thinking.”

“Is he okay?”

Aiden shook his head. “Should be?” It was the least reassuring thing he could have done. “I don’t know,” he amended. “I’ve never—” he cut off when the water started to bubble.

It was hard to remember that Aiden was new at this. He acted like so much more than he was—a veritable child. This had only been his second year out on the Path. He would _only_ be twenty in the coming spring. Eskel and Geralt weren’t much older, but Geralt was at least old enough to know things. He was the one who needed the help, and he was relying on Aiden. Eskel wouldn’t be able to do much other than worry, though the worry was beginning to melt into something entirely different.

Aiden shouldn’t be in this position. But there he was, struggling to do the best that he knew how. He’d only ever tended to his own wounds, and he didn’t have many of them. Only a few scars, yet, mostly scattered on his arms. They were small. The largest enemy he’d face was that ogre, and Geralt had been there to help. Now, Geralt was the one in need of help, because he’d done something stupid. And that’s what it was—stupid. Eskel was angry about it, he realized. It wasn’t worry.

“Can you—” Aiden stopped, reassessing his question. “You know how to make a salve, don’t you?”

Eskel nodded. “I can make one. Go—deal with whatever.” He nearly grumbled, though he tried to keep himself amicable.

Aiden didn’t seem to notice the change in tone. He just took the bucket of water and a rag into Emiel’s old room. Still, he left the door open. Aiden sat down on the edge of the bed and peeled Geralt’s hand away from himself, where he was still desperately holding over the wound. After a brief dip in the water, Aiden wrung out the cloth. He hesitated for just moment. Geralt was breathing hard and looking at the cloth like he knew this was going to hurt. And it was.

There was no point in bothering with a warning. Aiden just pressed the hot, wet cloth to Geralt’s chest and tried not to listen to the way that he hissed. The pain was immediate, and when Aiden moved the cloth, the hisses turned to groans. Geralt just rolled his head to the side, breathing hard as Aiden cleaned the wound.

It was an arduous process. Aiden took his time, ensuring the dried blood and new blood all the same was done away with. He didn’t stop until the long cut was nothing but an oozing slash across Geralt’s chest. It was definitely going to scar, but those potions had already done the trick.

“You’re going to need some serious bed rest,” Aiden said. “What the fuck did you do?”

Geralt just shook his head. He didn’t have the energy to speak, and Aiden was just going to have to deal with that for the time being. Aiden just sighed. He dropped the cloth in the bucket and stared down at it. The water had turned red. Aiden stood and lugged the bucket out of the room. He didn’t stop to check in on Eskel. He just went straight for the door to toss the water out on the grass. He left the bucket and the cloth right by the door—inside, to ensure that animals didn’t get to it. He’d need to take it down to the stream to clean it.

He approached Eskel, then, who’d finished the work. There was a mortar full of a cream-like substance. Eskel at set it at the end of the table, then rested his head in his hand. His other hand was clenched in a fist. He was staring straight ahead at the empty seat across from him and the wall beyond. He didn’t look at Aiden, and Aiden didn’t look at him. Aiden just took the mortar of salve and disappeared back into the bedroom.

The only sound in the house after that was Geralt’s pained grunts and cries as Aiden applied the salve. The wound spanned from the top of Geralt’s chest, right below his collarbone, down to his abdominals. It was a substantial length, and all of it needed to be covered. Once it was, Aiden set the mortar on the nightstand and left it there. Geralt would get to lay there in pain while the salve did its job. In the meantime, Aiden stepped back out so he could brew the swallow.

In the meantime, Eskel just sat there, brewing something of his own. Anger. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He didn’t know the story, but that didn’t stop him from being _angry_ about it. Had Geralt taken a contract that he shouldn’t have? Had he stupidly wandered into the territory of a griffin, a cockatrice—what? Did it even matter? Geralt had done something that had nearly gotten him killed. What if he hadn’t had the potions he needed to survive the trip home? What if Aiden hadn’t been here to help him?

Eskel was fuming in his own private thoughts by the time Aiden had brewed the swallow. Aiden just walked right by him, back into the room to take care of Geralt. Who shouldn’t have even gotten himself into this type of a mess in the first place. Geralt should have been able to get himself out of the mess, but he needed Aiden to sit there and hold his head up so he could even drink the potion. After that was done, Aiden came back out of the room once more for bandages.

He had to go all the way out to Roach for bandages. Geralt had packed them, because he always did, but that didn’t mean he’d had the time to use them. Aiden found them rolled up in his saddle bag, then came back inside to do the final bit of work. After this, it would be up to Geralt’s ability to heal.

Bandaging him was a challenge all its own, but Aiden got it done. He had Geralt wrapped about the waist, the chest, and over his shoulder. Once he was finished, Geralt was finally allowed to rest in the bed undisturbed. Aiden gave him one last reassuring pat on the shoulder before he got up and headed back out of the room. This time, he closed the door. It was easy enough to shout through if Geralt needed anything. They were going to need new bandages, now, but Aiden figured he could be the one to replace them.

“He’ll be okay,” Aiden finally announced. “Are you?”

Eskel just snorted, then dropped his head into his hands.

Aiden offered a strained smile. “Great,” he said. “Just great. Glad everyone’s doing well.”

“You don’t have to get it,” Eskel snapped. “That bastard wants to go off and get himself hurt, then let him.”

Aiden frowned. “He can get hurt all he wants. Doesn’t mean I have to let him die. You want him to?”

Eskel didn’t answer. The answer was obvious and unreasonable. No, he didn’t want Geralt to _die_. Neither did he want for Geralt to get hurt at all, but that was the unreasonable part. The very nature of his job implied the high likelihood of getting hurt, but what would Eskel know about that? He wasn’t a Witcher. He may have had the eyes and the knowledge, but he didn’t have the swords or the medallion. Aiden didn’t have to understand why he was mad, and Eskel didn’t have to understand how any of it had even happened.

They both just lacked the experience. Eskel wasn’t a Witcher, and Aiden didn’t have a partner. Aiden even seemed to _prefer_ not having a partner.

“Gonna go do the clean-up,” Aiden muttered. “Get Roach put away, I don’t know.”

Eskel didn’t say anything, and Aiden didn’t need him to. He didn’t need Eskel’s permission to do anything. He didn’t even have to tell Eskel he was doing anything. As much as Eskel and Geralt, Aiden practically lived here. Anything he wanted to do, he could do it. So, he did. On his way out the door, he grabbed the dirty bucket and the dirty cloth. It was his turn to fume, but he at least had the decency to do it in private.

Geralt shifted where he lay. It was the first real movement he’d done on his own in what felt like ages. Already, he was beginning to feel better. It’d been maybe an hour since Aiden had brought him home. Longer, Geralt thought, because the process they’d gone through to get him to this point had been no quick feat. All he knew was that he was beginning to feel like he could move. Aiden maybe was new to the whole idea of caring for deep wounds, but he remembered enough from what he’d been taught to do a decent job.

With a groan, Geralt pushed himself up. He swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet firmly on the floor. It was then that he realized he was a bit chilled, but Aiden had been right to get his armor and his clothes off. There were clothes in the room that Geralt had left before he’d gone off in the summer. Though it took a great deal of effort, Geralt managed to stand up and move over to the chest of drawers. He had to lean on it for support, but his clothes were all stuffed into just one of the drawers. It was easy to get it out.

A loose pair of pants and an even looser shirt later, Geralt was dressed. As dressed as he could be, though he wouldn’t call it presentable. Like Aiden had said, he was going to need proper bed rest to heal. Once he had, then he could worry about looking _presentable_. This was his house. It was nothing Eskel and Aiden hadn’t seen before, though he had heard Aiden storm out of the house. Aiden’s reactions to things were something to get used to; he was a bit touchier than any of the Wolves had been.

Geralt went for the door on slow feet. He pulled it open, and then stepped out into the main room of the cottage. Instantly, his gaze met Eskel’s. Geralt looked pained. He had his arm wrapped around himself, half-bent over because straightening up tore the wound apart. Aiden had wrapped up him tight enough, but with the right straining, Geralt could still hurt himself. And Eskel knew it. Eskel knew that not only had he gotten himself hurt, but now he was working to do it again by not keeping himself in bed.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Eskel asked.

Geralt looked at him, shocked. “Excuse me?”

“What did you do? What _happened_ out there?” Suddenly and without preamble, Eskel was pushing himself up from the table in a rush. He took one step towards Geralt, which was all he needed to wave his hand wildly in the air to ensure Geralt knew he was _angry_.

“Do you have no fucking idea what you’re doing?” Eskel continued. “Think you can just go out there and be a hero, or something? What would happen if you had died? You have a _son_ , Geralt. Maybe he’s not exactly here, but how do you think he’d react if he came home to find out you’re dead? What about _me,_ Geralt?”

Geralt was smiling, though. It was a weak smile. A pained smile. But there was definitely a quirk in his lips as he looked at Eskel. That wasn’t right. If anything, it just made Eskel angrier.

“This is funny?” He nearly shouted.

Geralt shook his head. “Eskel, you’re standing.”

Eskel’s eyes went wide, then. He looked down, and sure enough, he was standing. He’d stood up on his own. He hadn’t been able to do that, so far. No matter how hard he’d tried, he still needed Aiden or Geralt’s help to stand, to walk. Not only had he stood up on his own, but he’d taken that step. Which meant, just maybe, he could take another one. Eskel tried it, then stumbled under his own weight. That was too much, but Geralt was close enough to catch him.

To try, because Geralt was still wounded. They both promptly collapsed right to the floor. Geralt groaned, doubling over when he hit his backside, but Eskel could help _him_ , this time. He pressed a hand to Geralt’s chest to help him steady himself. Eskel could at least do that on his own—steady himself upright.

“Sorry,” Geralt muttered. He wrapped a hand around Eskel’s arm and just squeezed. “Contract went bad,” he said. “All the signs pointed to a forktail but turns out to be a royal wyvern. Wasn’t my best luck. I fucked up.”

Eskel’s face softened.

“Killed it, for what it’s worth. Bastard got a good hit in, though. Came right home. Figure Aiden can go collect the coin on his way out.”

“Geralt,” Eskel muttered. “Can’t do shit like that. Too dangerous.”

Geralt shook his head. “It wasn’t on _purpose_ , Eskel. I— If you think that you and Emiel aren’t always on my mind, then _clearly_ , I’m doing something wrong. Can’t fucking imagine leaving you two alone, or even _losing_ one of you. Thought this was going to be easy, and it wasn’t.”

Eskel sighed. He reached out and tilted Geralt’s head towards him. Though his touch was hesitant and light, their skin still met—Geralt still felt the warmth.

“Shouldn’t have yelled,” Eskel admitted. “Worried about you. Nothing to do in here all day but worry.”

“Looks like you’ve been studying.”

Eskel nodded. “Aiden’s been helping me. You’ve got a good memory, apparently. Says your notes are impeccable, though I think he hates to admit it.”

Geralt gave a light laugh. “Glad to hear it. If you can stand, maybe you can start training.”

“You certainly can’t help me.”

“Winter’s no good time for training, anyway. Besides—” Geralt sucked down a deep breath. “Probably need to find a way to make myself scarce, don’t I?”

Right. There was still that huge rift between them. Eskel could barely stand to touch Geralt. Having him around during a heat was just too much for Eskel to imagine. So long as Geralt was healed enough to leave, he really would need to leave. That would put a stop to whatever training they _could_ start, if they could start any at all.

“Work on walking,” Geralt said. He pushed himself back up, using the wall as support. Once he was up, he offered a hand for Eskel to take. Eskel took it. “If you can walk by spring, then Aiden can start your training.”

Eskel stood up on wobbly legs, but he agreed. That was for the best. Once he was standing, though, Eskel didn’t immediately let go of Geralt’s hand. He held it just weakly between his fingers, trying to remember what it was like to actually _want_ Geralt’s touch and companionship. There had been a time where he craved it, where he’d done whatever he could to make sure they were touching, or at least close together.

“I do love you,” Eskel said, suddenly. Because he did. That hadn’t changed. He still _wanted_ ; it was just hard. It was so much harder now.

“I know,” Geralt said. “Nothing’s changed. Take all the time you need.”

“If it’s forever?”

Geralt shrugged. “Witchers live a long time. Whether it’s next year or forever, I’ll be here.” Geralt paused, then. He leaned closer, just an inch. “Could I kiss you?” He asked.

Eskel didn’t even answer. He just closed the space himself, a quick peck right to Geralt’s lips. It was all he could manage, and it was enough. Geralt smiled. After that, he helped Eskel back to the table, and he disappeared back into Emiel’s old room to lay back down in bed. He needed the rest, and Eskel needed to work.

Aiden eventually came back in, and the first thing he saw was Eskel bracing himself on the edge of the table. Suddenly, it was like the bucket and the blood and the _everything_ didn’t matter anymore. Washing away blood hadn’t exactly quelled Aiden’s anger; seeing Eskel so angry that Geralt was _hurt_ had just put Aiden on edge. None of it mattered anymore. Aiden set the bucket and the newly cleaned rag back down beside the door, letting it slam behind him, and he dashed in.

Eskel was back in the chair by the time Aiden made his way across the room, but their eyes still met. Aiden wore everything right on his sleeve, on his features. He looked so excited—pupils blown wide, a smile on his lips.

“Eskel!” Aiden tried not to shout, but he may have missed it on the second syllable. “You—walking, you—standing, I guess, standing. Fuck! Fuck. That’s so—”

Eskel offered Aiden a sideways grin and just shook his head. “Stop screaming,” he said. “Had enough of that today.”

Aiden hurried to sit down across the table. “Right, right, no screaming. Screaming’s bad. But fuck, Eskel. You can just stand, now?”

“Working on it, anyway. Not for long.”

“Soon you’re gonna be walking.” Aiden leaned forward on his hands and smiled. “Put a sword in your hand, and you’re well on your way to being a Witcher.”

Eskel scoffed. “Maybe not that quickly.”

In response, all Aiden could offer was an eye roll. “Learn to dream.”

There was a time Eskel had dreamed, and it hadn’t ended up well. He hesitated to do it again, especially about the same dream. Only this time, it wouldn’t just be about walking the Path with Geralt. It would be about walking the Path with his _family_. Emiel would be ten in the spring, which meant he’d be faced with his first official trial. The Choice. That was easier to think about than Eskel’s own _dream_. It was impossible not to miss Emiel. The house was quieter without him.

“Could stand to dream, I guess,” Eskel replied. It certainly wasn’t the dream Aiden was hoping for, though.

Eskel just looked at Aiden, for a moment. His red hair was a mess down his shoulders, half-fallen out of the tail he’d put it in that morning. He was wearing just normal clothes, but Eskel could see his armor from memory. That tight leather vest with the straps. The gloves and the gauntlets. Everything but his arms was covered. Aiden had a nice tan, but Emiel was paler. Emiel would grow up somewhere Eskel couldn’t see him, but he would wear that Cat armor someday. That was something Eskel could dream about.

Aiden had even suggested that Eskel could join the Cats, himself. It was possible he could see Emiel, but to do that, he would have to learn how to walk again. He’d have to learn to pick up a sword. And after, Eskel would have to learn to fight. He looked out into the cottage room and sighed, which had Aiden frowning, suddenly. In favor of gripping the edge of the table, Eskel ignored him. He just worked on pushing himself back up to his feet.

“Can I tell Emiel?” Aiden asked. “Definitely going to see him again when I go back. So, can I? That his Mommy’s up and walking?” Aiden was just too happy about it. It was contagious, really. Eskel couldn’t help but smile, and he _really_ couldn’t help but stand up again.

“Tell him. Don’t forget how he reacts. I want to know.”

Aiden nodded. “Got the best memory. Reenact it, too, if you want.”

Eskel made a face. Like a grimace, but not quite. “Aiden,” he said, very seriously, “I have shared a bed with you. Last thing I need is you pretending to be my son.”

Aiden just laughed. Eskel couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh along with Aiden, but he at least smiled. Aiden had that sort of carefree nature that Eskel _wished_ he still had. Maybe Aiden would lose it someday, but Eskel hoped he wouldn’t. Something about it was just so simple. The house would be quieter without Aiden, too, but at least things were looking up.

In the winter, when Geralt was back on his feet and healing quite nicely, Aiden left. With his xenovox in hand, finding the Dyn Marv caravan was an easy feat. They told him right where they were hiding—not too much farther north than they had been the last time Aiden was there. They were hiding in Mettina, which gave Aiden a hefty travel time. He left later than he might have otherwise, but he would be back at the caravan before the snow had become impassable.

Aiden had just wanted to ensure that Eskel would be okay. He’d been alright before, Aiden, so he would be alright without him. Eskel had even managed to walk outside of the cottage for the first time in far too long to bid Aiden goodbye. He leaned on the door frame instead of on Geralt and waved as Aiden rode off.

As horses went, Aiden’s was special. She was a young mare, still a bit rowdy when it came to travel. She had more of a mind to try and fight monsters than she did run from them, but that was what Aiden liked about her. She was brown with white blotches all over her, like paint. Her mane and tail were bright. Really, as horses went, this was about as close to Aiden would ever find as himself in a horse. She served him well, and they were able to travel for whole days at a time.

Upon his arrival at the caravan, Aiden was throwing himself off his horse before they’d even come to a complete stop. She knew where to go, and even if she couldn’t figure it out, someone was stepping out from around the first tent to take hold of her reins, anyway. The sight made Aiden snort with quiet laughter. He straightened up his armor and flipped his hair behind his shoulder as he came around the side of his horse. Jad Karadin was the one taking her reins, and Aiden grinned.

“Got you on stable duty?” He laughed. “Whose cock you forget to suck?”

Karadin didn’t respond, because he rarely did. If not for the fact that Aiden had _seen_ Karadin lose his shit, one might not even believe he was a Cat at all.

Aiden put his hands up. “Alright, alright. Brood, for all I care. Where they got the little ones?”

“Running back to your kid?”

“Very much so.” Aiden wasn’t ashamed of it. They could tease him however they like about how he treated Emiel, and he would still do it. “Where they at?”

Karadin shrugged. “I don’t exactly keep up on their location. Perhaps you could walk around the camp. It would do me a service, at least. Get you out of my hair.”

Aiden grinned, but that was the end of their conversation. He left Karadin to his horrible title of stable boy by walking off. He wanted to find Kiyan, too. Catching up after a long year was important, especially when it came to lying about how much Aiden actually did on the Path. Keeping up with Eskel left him only active for half the time he should have been, but it was worth it. Kiyan would help him with his facade, as he had the previous year. It was just a matter of finding him.

It was much harder to find an individual Cat than it was to just locate where they’d set up with training. Aiden set out to that task first; for all he knew, Kiyan wasn’t even back yet. Dyn Marv was nothing short of impressive, so even if Kiyan had returned already, finding him would be a treat.

They were nestled at the edge of a forest. The sound of a streaming river came off from the left, while the sounds of lurking things was on the right. The cold would eventually freeze the river silent, and the birds had already gone. Tents were set up everywhere, though it was much more refined and organized than it had been in the year before. Once a rhythm had been found, they stuck to it. It’d gone from a vague collection of tents and rag-tag Cats to a little town made of tents.

Carriages were strewn about in between tents and carts for the horses. Everything could be dismantled and moved at a moment’s notice, but it all still felt solid. Weapons and armors were stored just out in the open, close to the tents and the carts. There wasn’t enough room anywhere to store them all. At the end of the tent town was Treyse’s tent, where Guxart often spent his time as an unofficial second-in-command. In the middle of the tent town was a fire and something that acted like a kitchen. Somewhere else, the mages had set up with their alchemy and their instruments.

That was where they were preparing for the Dreams. Aiden always looked forward to the night of partying. He already couldn’t wait to stand off to the side, party and drink, while _Eskel_ went through them. Emiel, too. If Aiden had his way, he’d have Eskel down here at Dyn Marv before Emiel went through the dreams. He had plenty of time. Just over eight years.

Aiden followed the noises though the caravan, ducking and weaving from side to side to make his way around the hustle and bustle. Off in the distance, closer to the river than the forest, he could hear that all-too familiar sound of shouting and grunting as the boys trained. The louder the sounds got, the faster Aiden walked. He went from walking into a slow jog just to approach quicker. He broke through a line of tents, and then the sounds were right there in front of him.

For no longer than a moment did Aiden stand there before he’d attracted someone’s attention. Several attentions, really, but there was only one that he cared about. Bright blue eyes, bouncy brown hair, and that Wolf’s medallion still hanging out around his neck.

They were sparring with wooden training sword. At the sight of Aiden, Emiel’s eyes went wide and a great grin spread across his face. He turned back to his partner—the little girl Aiden had come to know was Hagen—and finished the training with a quick decisive blow. She fell straight onto her rump in the wet grass, screaming out with her frustration and throwing her sword to the side like _any_ Cat would have done. Then, Emiel tossed his own sword. He turned towards Aiden and ran.

“Emiel!” Crax shouted from the head of the group. “Get your goddamn ass back here!”

Emiel wasn’t listening, though. He weaved his way through the sparing, the footwork, and the swords, and went straight for Aiden. Crax was moving right after him, but he wasn’t anywhere near close enough nor fast enough to get to Emiel before Emiel got to Aiden.

“Aiden!” Emiel threw himself at Aiden, and Aiden caught him. Just as expected. Aiden hoisted Emiel up, and Emiel’s legs went around his hips. At that point, Crax had finally caught up. He was glaring, fuming, and at least eighteen other types of angry.

“Hey, kiddo,” Aiden greeted, grinning wide himself.

“It this just what you’re going to do?” Crax demanded “You can’t interrupt training every time you want to see the little shit.”

“Can, and I will.” Aiden’s attention turned right back to Emiel. “Got some great news for you, kiddo.”

“News? What, what?” Emiel asked, kicking his legs with excitement. He was getting tall, quickly. And big. It wouldn’t be too long before Aiden couldn’t carry him at all.

“About your mommy.”

That even gave Crax pause. Everyone _knew_ , of course, about Emiel’s circumstances. It hadn’t taken long for Treyse to talk about it, and then the whole caravan knew. It wasn’t like they knew the details, but at the hope of another Cat recruit, the older members of the school were put on notice. They _may_ be receiving a student an age of which they wouldn’t normally. The fact that Eskel had already undergone the Grasses meant that it was possible to continue training him. Those excited for the challenge, like Crax, were eagerly awaiting the day Aiden returned with Emiel’s mother in tow.

“Mommy’s okay?” Emiel asked, suddenly looking a bit more terrified than he should have. Aiden’s mistake.

Aiden nodded. “He’s great! Emmie, come on—let’s not look like a sad twat. Your mom’s up and walking. All on his own!”

Emiel suddenly grinned. “Walking?”

Aiden nodded. “Now, it’ll likely take a bit before he’s back in perfect shape, but he was walking last I saw. Been, what—” Aiden shrugged, “—month since then? Bet he’s walking even better now. Bastard’s got too much perfect in him not to be.”

“Good,” Emiel said. He rested his head on Aiden’s shoulder for just a moment. “I miss Mommy.”

“Aw, what about Daddy?”

Emiel smiled hard enough that his eyes closed, a scrunched up nose. “Miss Daddy, too. He went easy on me.”

Even Crax snorted. Aiden just rolled his eyes.

“Well, your daddy’s got a good new scar to add to his collection. Get you up and Witchering, soon, so you can go tell him what an idiot he is, okay? Got your mom real mad.”

Emiel snickered and nodded. After that, Aiden finally put him down. Like any good student, Emiel was quick to apologize to Crax, then ran off to join the rest of his class to continue training. There were only eight of them, which had Aiden’s own nose crinkling and arms folding. His class hadn’t been that small—not until _after_ the Grasses. These kids weren’t even ten, yet. Not until spring. Officially, anyway—Emiel would be ten at the end of January.

Crax turned around only to watch Emiel return to his work. He and Hagen resumed sparring the moment she had a sword in hand, whacking it over the back of Emiel’s head for leaving her. Once they had returned to properly sparring, Crax turned his attention back to Aiden. Immediately, Aiden put up his hand.

“Not gonna do that every time. Just wanted the kid to know his damn mom knows how to walk again.” Then, he folded his arms.

“Should kick your ass into the dirt for that,” Crax replied. “But it’s good. Kid needs some fire in his pants to keep him going that’s not screaming and threats of death.”

“Oh, like the rest of us didn’t turn out just damn fine with the threats.” Aiden rolled his eyes. “He train okay?”

“Falls on his ass just as much as you’d expect him to. Suspect he’ll be better at it when he’s done growing. Overall, not bad. You said his dad was training him before?”

Aiden nodded. “Witcher from the School of the Wolf—Geralt. Real easy to spot, if you ever see him. Got white hair and looks like he’s older than you.”

Crax knocked Aiden upside the head for that, and in response, Aiden nearly fell flat on his face. He managed to catch himself in just an off-handed stumble. Then, he grumbled and rubbed the back of his head where Crax had struck.

“Ever close enough to this Geralt, I might like to meet him,” Crax said. “Emiel’s got many problems as you’d expect. He’s a fucking child. But even I have to admit he knows a damn thing or two. Pretty impressed.”

Aiden couldn’t help but grin. He looked back out into the students sparring. Emiel blocked Hagen’s next strike, backing away in a quick two-footed step. It was a good move, save for the fact that they’d gotten close enough to another pair that Emiel knocked into another young boy, who turned and tried to strike him back. Emiel blocked that one too. A surge of pride struck through Aiden. Maybe Emiel really did have a future here at this Witcher thing.

“Get out of here,” Crax said, then, pushing Aiden off. “Got training to do. No breaks until the festival.”

“Yes, sir.” Aiden gave an over-accentuated bow, done to mock, then turned on his heel and left before he would suffer another of Crax’s hard strikes. He’d had enough of those as a child, and now that Aiden was a _real_ Witcher, he could dodge them from time to time.

For his final act, Aiden found a quiet corner of the tent town where a fire was already lit, and logs were rolled up to act as seats. Kiyan was sitting near the fire, rotating and rather hefty looking piece of meat over it. Kiyan wasn’t entirely alone, though he was the only one who had bothered to use the logs as a seat. Gaetan was there, too, sprawled out on the ground on what must have been the only dry spot of grass in the camp. From the smell, he’d likely toasted it just so he could stretch.

Without bothering to wait for an invitation, Aiden stepped right into the little area and plopped down on a log. He yanked off his swords and his crossbow and set them off to the side, and that clunking noise finally brought some real attention to him. They’d both likely realized his approach, but neither one had given him a glance until he sat down.

“The prodigal cunt returns,” Gaetan said, though he didn’t even bother to get up.

“You wish you had the chance to back that crap up with experience,” Aiden responded.

Gaetan snorted. “Half the assholes in this damn caravan want to fuck you open.”

“Can you two be gross somewhere else?” Kiyan asked. “Preferably not near my chicken?”

“Is _that_ what you’re cooking?” Gaetan gawked. “Smells like shit. Need to learn how to cook better.”

After that, the three of them did laugh. It wasn’t always tense, though it was normally crude. Nobody in the School of the Cat had a filter, and whether that was a product of their mutagens or their upbringing around Witchers who _also_ had no filters remained to be seen.

It wasn’t some secret that half the camp wanted to fall into bed with Aiden, because he’d fallen into bed with a few of them. One thing remained certain, though—Aiden didn’t fuck alphas. He did not go anywhere near them. Being an omega had its perks. Some of them would try to convince him that the heats and the knots _were_ the perks, but Aiden knew better. His perks were how he left alphas tripping over themselves to do what he wanted, and he _always_ got what he wanted. They never got anything more than a wink or a kiss. Gaetan would be no exception.

If Aiden had his way, he’d spend the rest of his life without ever spreading his legs for an alpha. He didn’t like how stupid they were, nor did he really care for the way they smelled. He liked other omegas the best, but they were harder to come by. He settled with betas, at the worst of times. There were plenty of those around Dyn Marv. Plenty of them like Kiyan who were happy to lay down for a fuck and still be friends afterward. It didn’t have to be weird. An alpha could make things weird.

Kiyan eventually finished cooking his less than savory chicken experiment. Once he had, Gaetan tugged himself off the grass and sat down on one of the logs so he could nab a piece, regardless of the critique he’d had for it earlier. In remembrance of that critique, Kiyan let Aiden have first pick of meat. Then, he took what he wanted. Gaetan could sort through the leftovers and see how he felt about being an asshole, then.

“Heard you fucked up training for the kids,” Kiyan said.

Aiden preened. “I did. Wanted to see Emiel.”

At this point, half of Dyn Marv _also_ was convinced that Emiel was Aiden’s kid. While Aiden appreciated the sentiment, he also couldn’t help but think how stupid everyone was. Aiden was infertile. All Witchers were. Even if he wasn’t, Aiden wasn’t about to settle down and pop out a baby.

“What for?”

“Remember when I told you about Eskel?” Aiden ripped a bite out of his chicken. It tasted better than it smelled, somehow. Both Kiyan and Gaetan remembered. “Might actually be coming true. He’s up and walking again, so I figured I’d tell Emiel that his mom’s not a fucking invalid anymore. Good stuff, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Kiyan quirked a quick grin. “You seem real excited about Eskel coming down here.”

“Bet he’s just excited to have another cunt around,” Gaetan chimed in.

“Definitely,” Aiden replied, a painfully fake, wistful sigh. “Talk all you want, Gaetan. Bet I get more cunt than you. I know your just jealous.”

Gaetan frowned and took a very sharp bite out of his chicken. Something about the way he did it had Aiden staring a bit longer than he ought of. Like Gaetan was angry at him—and for what? Aiden hadn’t said anything to him he wouldn’t have said to anyone else. Maybe something he’d said had hit a bit too close to home, though. Now, Aiden was just left to curiously figure out what it was. Either Gaetan was angry at the insinuation that he couldn’t get a woman—or an omega—in his bed, or he didn’t want one there to begin with.

They ate in relative silence, after that. After they were finished eating, Aiden could sit with Kiyan for a bit to just chat. Like most discussions upon first arrival back, it spiraled out of control. Always with a touch, at first. Just something innocent like their knees bumping together. From there, it just got worse. They talked through most of it, Witcher things while they touched and kissed and touched some more. Eventually, the talking didn’t matter. Kiyan rolled them off the log, and it all ended with Aiden’s back in the grass and his legs spread, Kiyan on top of him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: gore, death, dead bodies
> 
> i have figured out where im gonna break off the story, so i WILL be removing some of the jaskier related tags, but don't worry. book 2 will include the bard :)

Of all the places Geralt had been, he’d never dared to return to Kaedwen. There was too much risk involved. The chances that he could run into an unsavory brother were high. The chances that he could run into someone friendly existed, but not in such a great manner that he could count on it. The only thing Geralt wanted to count on was finding monsters, and he’d heard enough talk just south of the river that there were some monster problems just to the north, in southern Kaedwen.

On Roach’s back, Geralt crossed the first bridge he came to. There was a little town right at the crossroads of the river, and it was there that Geralt intended to go. It was just a matter of how long it would take. This would be the majority of his travel, here. He had to return to the cottage before winter set in to ensure that Aiden could return to Dyn Marv. Currently, that was the only connection both Eskel and Geralt had to their son. Aiden would return in the spring with stories from the caravan, and most of those stories included Emiel.

The weather was clear, though there was still a chill in the air. Geralt’s armor was repaired; it kept him covered and as warm as it ought to. Temperature was hardly an issue when the monster hunting began. The sun was still rising in the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. A good day for travel as much as it was for anything else. Geralt had no urge to hurry down the roads. Roach just cantered on at her own pace, and Geralt found himself taken by the scenery.

It’d been so long since he’d seen Kaedwen. It wasn’t as much his home anymore as it had been, but it was still _something_. Geralt didn’t really know where he’d come from, so he always imagined here. He’d lived at Kaer Morhen since he was a babe. Vesemir had taken care of him. Ellander was his home now, that little cottage with Eskel. But this would always remain. The negatives couldn’t erase that this had been the first home Geralt had ever had.

He let his thoughts wander while he rode. Roach carried them both down the path, and soon, the village was coming into view. It wasn’t big enough to warrant a long stay, but it was certainly big enough to have its fair share of problems. This was the place he’d heard about just south of the river. They had _something_ going on. With the quiet surroundings, Geralt was sure it was going to be quite the story. As he approached the side of the town, he dismounted Roach.

Lead by her reins, Roach followed Geralt into the town. They went slow, while the aftershocks of riding worked their way out of Geralt’s thighs. He could ride a horse forever and still never get used to the difference in riding and walking. It always took a minute for his muscles to settle.

By the time he reached what must have been the tavern, given the smell and the crudely prepared sign hanging off the building, Geralt was fine. He left Roach right outside, near another horse that was already drinking from the water trough, then headed towards the door.

Inside, it was nothing short of a commotion. Rowdy tavern goers were three seconds away from a fight, and the door opening caught their attention. It stopped the fight, but suddenly, they were looking at Geralt. It took less than fifteen seconds to size him up—cat eyes, two swords, and a medallion.

“There’s another damn Witcher!” One of them shouted. He’d had his grubby hands around the shirt of another, who he promptly threw back with such force the man nearly faltered and fell to the floor.

Another Witcher. That was already not promising. Geralt didn’t want to meet any Witchers in Kaedwen. The possibility that they were Wolves was too high, and the possibility that they _remembered_ was too much to think of.

“Not here to cause trouble,” Geralt said.

“Doesn’t matter what you came for! Who the fuck you are, anyway?”

“Geralt,” was all Geralt could say. Because that’s all he was. He and Vesemir had talked about it once, far too long to really remember. He vaguely recalled wanting to choose some long and ridiculous name for himself, but when focuses shifted, Geralt forgot about the idea of having a proper name. He’d always been so focused on Eskel.

“Geralt.” The man snorted. “So, not just a Witcher, but a fucking bastard, too! This really the kind of help we squabble around for these days?”

Geralt frowned. “Where’s this other Witcher? Could just go join up with him and be done with this.”

“Yeah, go fuck off with the rest of your kind. Didn’t want that one here either!”

“Will you pipe the fuck down!” A woman shouted from the counter. “Causing nothing but trouble in here.”

Geralt snorted. “Didn’t want to stay anyway. Smells like piss in here.” He hated towns like this. He liked the ones that recognized the need for Witchers and paid them appropriately. Towns like this almost deserved the monster problems they had.

He left before he heard the rest of their rambling screaming. As the door slammed behind him, Geralt was left standing with his eyes wide. There was someone by the horse. Someone who, by the back of his head alone, Geralt swore he recognized. He was tall, bigger than Geralt remembered. He had black hair tied up in a knot at the top of his head. Either it was the way the sun was shining, or he was in desperate need of a bath. By the smell, Geralt guessed a bath, as he stepped forward.

The sound of his boot and the smell of him in return caught the stranger’s attention. Because Geralt’s scent was familiar. Pine and clove. The stranger turned just as Geralt approached, only a few steps away. And their eyes met. Two sets of cat eyes, golden and slit-pupils. Geralt recognized that sharp, down-turned nose and the scraggle tooth.

“Gardis,” Geralt breathed out.

“Fuck—Geralt? That you?” Gardis pushed away from his horse. “Is that _really_ you?”

In lieu of a response, Geralt just grabbed Gardis by the shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug. Gardis fell right into it, no resistance. He put his arms around Geralt’s chest and squeezed back. When they parted, they just stared at each other like they couldn’t believe this was happening. And then, suddenly, Gardis’ face twisted up into something pained and afraid.

“Fuck,” Gardis said. “Been way too long, Wolf. We should—” his voice caught.

“The contract?” Geralt tried. He reached out and squeezed Gardis’ shoulders. “We can do that. Catch up.”

Gardis shook his head. “Fuck. Right. Contract. It’s a fucking—uh. Fuck.” Gardis put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Leshen,” he said. “Looks like it’s moving into the area, having a real good fucking time of it, too. Merchant was killed with his transport. Just got back from investigating the site.”

“Not enough to just go after it?”

“Off in the forest it looks like. Gonna need to do some more looking around. Definitely could use the help. Then, like you said—we could catch up.”

“Everything okay?”

Gardis shook his head, but he didn’t say anything. He just turned back to his horse. They had a leshen to deal with. Gardis was already planning on splitting the reward, though it wasn’t much to contend with. The whole town had thrown in their coin to pay for a Witcher, and then spent the entire time mocking the one that had shown up. Geralt had gotten the same welcome, minus the talk of coin. Instead of pressing for anything further than this, Geralt just mounted his horse beside Gardis.

It was good to see him again. Geralt couldn’t fathom just how good it was to see a friendly face, but there was worry edged just beneath. Gardis seemed off, but he was at least alive. Seeing his face renewed the age old questions Geralt hadn’t asked himself in years. Was Gweld alive? What about Vesemir? If he were strong enough, at the end of this contract, he would ask. Gardis had to know. He was sporting his Wolf’s medallion and wearing freshly repaired Wolf armor.

They rode out into the forest together, side by side. It was something they had never done. Gardis and Geralt hadn’t ever had time to do much together, unless it was training. Even then, paired off as children, they were hardly put together. The older Witchers saw Geralt, as a child, and believed he was in a different league. Gardis was put with other boys in _his_ league, below Geralt’s. Like it was somehow meant to say Gardis was lesser, but he still knew how to swing a sword. He did it well.

Straight into the forest they went. Eventually, Geralt picked up on the same trail that Gardis had been following, as it led them off the trail. The merchant had been the only casualty at the site on the main paths, but Gardis had been quick to figure out he had not been the only one with the cart. There were signs of others, and though there was no sign of someone fleeing the cart, they had been there. That left the only option as the leshen had taken them.

Gardis was following the scent of perfume, and it led them right to the body of a young woman. It was there that they both dismounted their horses. Any closer, and they would risk losing their horses to the leshen. It was better to leave them back and walk the rest of the way. They stopped at the body first. Geralt stood by while Gardis knelt down to inspect her.

“Brutal,” Gardis muttered. “Got monsters this rough down wherever you are?”

Geralt nodded. “Monsters are everywhere. Always the same. Looks like she died quick, at least.”

Gardis snorted. “Small mercies.”

She had died quickly, though she was ripped limb from limb. Not all of her was there, either. Half of her face was missing, as was her left arm. It was brutal, but nothing would mistake the kill of a leshen. There were claw marks on the nearby trees, things displaced and ruined. It was definitely a newcomer to the forest, one looking to leave its mark and make a home.

While Gardis continued his inspection, Geralt looked out into the forest. If she were missing a body part, it was likely they could still follow her scent into the woods. Already, Geralt could smell it. The light taste of perfume was already on his tongue, and he just followed it. Gardis looked up to watch him go but didn’t immediately follow. Geralt just walked off on his own, not so far that either one of them would be caught alone, but far enough that something came into view.

“Gardis,” he called back. “Gardis—I found it’s totem.”

Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from what he saw. This was something he _hadn_ _’t_ seen before. The brutality was one thing, but this was something entirely else. This was a totem half-built out of human remains, and not all of them were from the woman Gardis still stood by. She was just the centerpiece, with her face laid out on the skull of the totem. That was at least inhuman, though it provided little comfort. Geralt grabbed for his silver sword and gritted his teeth.

Behind him, Gardis finally approached. Gardis’ sword was already drawn, though they exchanged a quick look before either of them moved. It was Geralt who eventually approached the totem. There was only one way to piss a leshen off bad enough that it would appear, and Geralt performed that action with cunning expertise. The totem clattered to the ground under the force of his strike, and then the wind picked right up after.

“Ready yourself,” Geralt said. “Been too good to see you. You’re not dying here.”

Gardis snorted. “Speak for yourself, Wolf. Not all of us got some cushy little house to live in.”

In a rush of crows, the leshen appeared. It was a mangled looking horror of trees and roots and bones. Definitely young and definitely angry. With any luck, its anger and youth would serve to be its downfall. Maybe it would fight messy, but if they could get in behind it, strike at the back, they had a chance. There were two of them against the one leshen. As long as they weren’t stupid, both Geralt and Gardis would walk out of this.

The leshen struck first.

A long and hard fight it was, but they survived. They survived tired and bleeding. Both of them had dropped down into the grass, swords left out, and breath hard. Just a moment was all they needed, and they spent it in silence. The woods would have been a pleasant place to stay if they weren’t surrounded with death and the stench of blood. Both of them were hungry, too, known only by the sudden growl of Gardis’ stomach. It killed the silence. It killed the tension.

They both began to laugh. Geralt was the first one off the ground. He wiped his sword on his gauntlet, and then sheathed it. After Gardis had sheathed his own sword, Geralt offered his hand. Gardis took it; Geralt hoisted him up, then slapped him on the back. They were going to live, and they were going to do it well. They each whistled for their horse in turn, and the two beasts came running a moment later.

From there, it was back to town with the leshen’s head. Gardis took it into the tavern to collect the reward and some food. Geralt, in the meantime, found a nice quiet place outside of the putrid little village where they could sit and have that _talk_. Years had gone by since the last time they’d seen each other, and even then—Geralt hadn’t seen Gardis during the attack. Gardis had still been out. Maybe he was just on his way to returning. Either way, he would have returned to that massacre. Geralt wanted to hear _everything_.

There was a nice field just outside of town where Geralt picked to sit. He laid out his bedroll for somewhere to sit rather than in the wet grass, and then he just waited. Gardis came up not ten minutes later. He plopped the food down, set up his horse, and rolled out his own place to sit. Then, he sat down. He was right across from Geralt. Instantly, they were right back in Kaer Morhen. They were children, sitting around the fire and laughing. Gweld was there. Eskel was there. Only, they weren’t.

“How’s Eskel?” Gardis asked. They were right back in the putrid little village, then. “That’s a fucking question, huh? Just—hoping he’s alive.”

“He is,” Geralt said. Relief shown on Gardis’ face. That was when Geralt realized just how _much_ had happened. In only a few short years, lifetimes had passed. Gardis hadn’t known if Geralt or Eskel were alive any better than he’d known if Gardis was alive. He _still_ didn’t know if Gweld or Vesemir were. But, Geralt told his story.

He told Gardis about everything. How they escaped, getting the cottage, and even raising Emiel. Knowledge of Emiel’s safety also had Gardis smiling. They’d built themselves a family, and that family had a tag-a-long named Aiden. That story had Gardis near in tears as he laughed. Aiden sounded like a _treat_ —and Gardis wanted to meet everyone. Which, in turn, led to the truth that Geralt hadn’t actually seen in his son in a couple of years.

Emiel, as far as Geralt knew, was training with the Dyn Marv caravan under the care of a very grouchy Witcher named Crax. Emiel wasn’t the best in the class, but he wasn’t the worst. He would be going through the Choice this year. And then, the Grasses at fifteen. Geralt was almost afraid of the idea of Emiel at fifteen. Who would he be? _What_ would he be? He figured Aiden would tell them the moment Emiel presented. If he ever did.

“I’m glad,” Gardis said. “Real fucking nice to hear something happy for a change.”

Geralt didn’t like the way that sounded. He swallowed hard, then took a large bite out of a piece of bread, just to swallow again. “What about you?” He asked, though his voice cracked.

Gardis’ look soured almost instantly. He didn’t wait a beat before he answered. “Gweld is dead.”

Geralt’s breath _stopped_.

***

Gardis was caught up in Brugge, just south of the river-border of Kaedwen. He’d been wounded during his last battle, overwhelmed by too many nekkers all at once. He wasn’t ready to leave, not until his wounds were better healed. It had taken time, and put him nearly a week behind schedule, but it was a week he was glad for when things came to fruition. Eventually, he did just crawl up onto the back of his horse and send off towards Kaer Morhen.

The travel had been slow and arduous. His wounds were healing, but there was that ever-burning ache in his gut as they did. He drank down more swallow and hoped for the best, though his idea of _best_ had just been that the pain would stop. Healing always took time, even for a Witcher. He traveled slower than normal, which may have even put him farther behind schedule. He hadn’t been sure at the time. He just traveled. Eventually, he made it to the base of the mountain pass that would take him to Kaer Morhen.

Eerie silence surrounded him as he began to the ascent. It was cold, so the birds had all fled for warmer weather, but there were no deer nor wolves. Gardis took his travel alone. Given how late he was arriving, he hadn’t expected to meet another Witcher on the mountain pass, but it might have been nice. It might have passed the time. As it were, Gardis went in silence. He counted the clops of his horse’s hooves to keep himself awake.

When he arrived at Kaer Morhen, it was like a dark cloud hung over it. The mountains seemed larger, and the keep seemed smaller, somehow. Gardis felt his heart drop and his chest clench. Still, he traveled those last few miles until he arrived at the great gate, which was closed. It did not open at his arrival, and that told Gardis _immediately_ of a potential danger. At the very least, something was wrong. He dismounted his horse, arm wrapped around his waist where his wounds were the worst, and he pounded on the gate.

“Open the fuck up!” He shouted. “Where the fuck is everyone?”

He stood there for only a moment, then heard the gates begin to open. Gardis moved back to grab the reins of his horse. Before the gate had even opened completely, he was forcing his way through. Immediately, he took pause. A great, long pause with wide-eyes and breath caught in his throat. He saw things in ruin. He saw things scattered across the ground—bodies that had yet to be picked up. At that point, Gardis’ horse and the supplies she carried could be damned. He hurried.

Vesemir was the first person that he found, though Vesemir was looking worse for wear. It was like he’d aged ten years in one. He looked tired, gray hairs beginning to sprout. There were new wounds on his face, and his arm was broken. It was in a haphazard sling around his neck. Still, Vesemir was helping with whatever recovery was going on. At first glance, Gardis could already tell that things were bad. They had lost a lot of Witchers.

“You’ve returned,” Vesemir said.

“What happened?” Gardis couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Where—?” Could he even ask. He didn’t want to know the answer.

Vesemir just sighed. “We were attacked,” he said. “Bandits, most likely. Anyone who got a good enough look is dead. We’re just trying to pick up the pieces, now.”

Gardis nodded. There was still that looming question. Who had died? Had _everyone_ died? Gardis gulped and folded his arms. The least he could do was offer to help. There were more bodies stacked up than there were Witchers helping pick them up. Repairs needed to be made, too. Even from where he stood, Gardis could see a collapsed wall.

He got to work at Vesemir’s order. Rubble needed to be cleared. Bodies needed to be moved. If there was scattered equipment, it needed to be judged for the trash or for repair. It looked like they’d be in for a large, arduous task. The whole keep needed fixing, and that was the scariest part of it. Even the _bastion_ needed clearing. The bastion.

Gardis sucked in a deep breath and headed their first. He didn’t want to look at the bodies. He wasn’t ready to look at the bodies. He was barely ready to get working, but he had to. It would keep his mind off of things. So long as he didn’t have to look at the bodies—but that was the first thing he saw.

Varin was lying dead in the middle of the bastion yard, sword in hand. His gut was sliced open, entrails scattered in the grass. His eyes were wide open, and in them, Gardis saw no fear. He saw a Witcher who had, in the last moments of his life, been ready for death. The problem was his death had meant nothing. Varin had died trying to protect the boys, the ones who couldn’t protect themselves. And still, as Gardis stepped forward, he saw the bodies of children.

Suddenly, Gardis felt bile in his throat. They had been _slaughtered_. Boys of five, six, with their eyes ripped out and limbs ripped from their bodies. Varin had died to protect them, and _still_ , they had met a fate worse than death. And then they had died. Gardis couldn’t bring himself to move a single body, though he stopped at Varin’s. A cruel man he had been, but in the end, it was always with reason. Gardis dropped down and closed those eyes for good.

Gardis got to work, after that, and he tried not to pay attention to the death that he saw. He worked in the bastion until he could stand it no more, and then he returned to the keep. Nobody blamed him. There was a reason nobody had dared enter the bastion. They all saw the same horror that Gardis did and found it made them so sick that work was impossible. The help was needed elsewhere. It would take weeks to get the keep back in order.

The only saving grace was that not everyone had died. Some of the boys had survived. Some of the mages had survived. Some of the Witchers had survived. Even some of the staff had survived. It would be enough to continue, but things were stalled. They would get their first break when it came time for an evening meal, and that meal would be whatever meager thing remained in the stores. They’d been ransacked and slaughtered like dogs. The food was warm, and that was all that mattered.

After dinner, Gardis took a walk around the keep. He just needed to clear his head, stretch his legs. His wounds were still bothering him, and that was what took him to the laboratory. He figured that, if anything, the mages would be able to help him. Though, what he hadn’t realized was that all those who had survived were still sitting in the mess hall. The laboratory was another horror that people hadn’t faced yet, because it proved how vulnerable they’d been.

Gardis hadn’t _known._ If he had known, he wouldn’t have gone. He would have asked someone in the hall. Besides, the walk was good for him. He needed to keep moving so his joints didn’t lock up in exhaustion. He walked through the laboratory, and he saw the same horror that he’d seen everywhere else. Dead mages. Dead Witchers. It was only when he came across a mage he recognized that he finally stopped walking, and his stomach churned. He shouldn’t have eaten.

Mariette was lying dead against the back of a desk. Gardis didn’t know her _personally_ , but he knew her. He knew her because Eskel knew her. Because she was practically a father to him, the way she looked after him. Seeing her like this just begged more questions, but Gardis wasn’t strong enough to ask them. He didn’t know if Eskel had survived the attack. He didn’t know if it would have been a mercy if he hadn’t.

But something caught Gardis’ ears. A sudden, piercing cry, muffled by the building of stone around them. That took Gardis right out of his momentary pity. He was listening, now. To the cry. It was close and to the left, so he followed the sound of it. He was closer to it, then, though he was facing directly into a wall.

“A baby?” He questioned. That’s what the cry sounded like. A child. Which meant Eskel must have had his newest baby before this all happened, and somehow, it hadn’t been killed in the attack. But where was it?

In the next room over, it felt more like Gardis was circumventing the sound than getting closer to it, which left only one strange truth. The baby was, somehow, in the wall. But that made sense, didn’t it? Mariette was dead. Mariette, not wanting to risk the death of an infant, had insured the babe was hidden, and then died for it. She wasn’t watching her own back. Too busy watching that of a babe Eskel was sure to want dead, anyway. He didn’t seem to care about any of them—as long as they weren’t Emiel.

Gardis wasn’t thinking about Emiel. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what the boy looked liked, so there was no way to know if he’d already seen him dead. He could focus on this baby. Gardis went back into the previous room and followed the sound of the cries right until it tapered off, then he took a step back. The stone was out of place, but there would be no way to tell that without these perceptive skills. Stones didn’t stack evenly. It _looked_ like it was in place, but Gardis could see the old scrapes against it. It could be moved.

Gardis moved it, and once he had, it displaced the stone next to it. With two stones removed, Gardis could see into the hole. It all made sense now. Whatever was being stored in this hideout was all over the floor now, thrown out in a hurry to hide _this_. A baby. It had a piece of paper right on top of it, scribbled quickly in Mariette’s handwriting.

“Aubrey,” Gardis read. He held the baby, listening to it cry, and stared at the note. That’s all it said. One word. One name. Gardis looked down at the baby, and there was no mistaking. He had blue eyes and a shock of dark brown hair. He had a wide nose, too. “Fitting name,” Gardis muttered

He took the baby to the mess hall, where he now knew everyone was congregated. Someone else had to take care of this thing. He didn’t know what to do with a baby, so he dropped it on the first disgruntled person he could find. Then, he went straight for Vesemir. Gardis couldn’t keep his questions to himself, anymore. He didn’t care that Vesemir was mid-conversation. He was talking with Rennes and Barmin, who both looked awful, but had survived. Who _hadn_ _’t_ survived.

“Do we know who all died?” Gardis asked, without any introduction for himself. All three of them looked at him, immediately.

“More specific, boy,” Vesemir said. “Who are you looking after?”

“Just found a fucking baby hidden in the wall,” Gardis said. “Think you know who I’m asking about.”

Rennes snorted. “Simplest answer would be we don’t have a fucking clue. Haven’t gotten through all the bodies, but the omega seems to be gone.”

Gardis frowned. He kept his mouth shut, though. He didn’t need to have the only remaining Witchers angry at him for jumping across the table to strangle Rennes in front of them all.

“Pile of bodies out in the yard,” Barmin informed. “Go look there for your friends.”

Vesemir didn’t look pleased, and that had Gardis _terrified_. Who was he going to find in that pile of bodies? He wasn’t about to wait to be told. He had to go. Turning on his heel, Gardis ran back the way he came. He fled from the hall, turning down towards the yard. He could see the pile of bodies, and he hated it. He hated where his eyes went first, trained to find the people he recognized, the people he _cared_ about.

Eskel and Geralt hadn’t been in the hall. They weren’t here. Gardis didn’t know what it meant, but in the moment, he couldn’t think about them. He dropped down to his knees right in front of the pile, and the dry sob that wrenched from his throat echoed.

Gweld. Dead. Eyes wide-open.

***

Gardis took a shuddering breath, then covered his face with his hands. After a moment, he gathered himself. It’d been _years_ , but it still hurt each time he thought about it. Everything still ached in the way that it had at the beginning. Gweld had been Gardis’ best friend. He’d been Geralt’s. He’d been everyone’s best friend. Something about him and his big smile, his crooked teeth, had made people trust him and love him.

“Reven was there too,” Gardis said. “In the pile. Dead.” He sounded sick, but his face had gone blank, once he removed his hands.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered.

“Yeah. Something like that. Everyone fucking _died_. Glad you and Eskel got out there. And Emiel, I mean—that’s great. You guys happy?”

Geralt nodded. “Happy as we can be, anyway. Eskel’s still—he’s recovering. Up and walking now, at least. That’s good.”

Gardis made a twisted up, nasty face. “He couldn’t walk?”

“Not a step. Carried him out of Kaer Morhen.”

Neither one of them were eating, anymore. They were staring at the food as if it had turned to ash right in front of them. The sight of it was gross enough. Swallowing it might have left them both sick by morning. It had all happened years ago, but it was still fresh in both of their minds. Gardis had narrowly avoided death. Geralt was still living in all of the consequences. Now, he couldn’t help but thinking that _he_ was the reason Gweld was dead. Gweld was dead because he’d covered Geralt’s escape. Because Geralt hadn’t stayed to help defend a soul.

He’d cared about two things that night. Two people. His mate and his son. If he’d cared about something else—if he’d _stayed_. Geralt just shook his head, and he sighed. This was too much. All at once, he was stricken with this need to get home. Though it would prove of little comfort, he wanted to see Eskel. He wanted to hold Eskel, which was something Eskel hadn’t allowed, so far. It wouldn’t happen just because Geralt felt guilty. He had no reason to feel guilty.

But there was always that glaring thought at the back of his skull that said he’d spent so _long_ taking care of everyone else that he was forgetting what it was like to take care of himself. He didn’t hate taking care of Eskel. He didn’t resent Eskel. It had all just meant that he didn’t know how to deal with these feelings that arose. He wasn’t supposed to have feelings. The mutagens were supposed to have done away with those, but they hadn’t. Not entirely. Even now, Gardis looked wrecked.

“We shouldn’t stay here long,” Gardis eventually said. He dug around in his pouch, then counted out some crowns. Those, he handed to Geralt. One-hundred and fifty.

“What was up with them, anyway?” Geralt asked as he took the coin. “Couldn’t just be mad that I’m a Witcher, but mad that I don’t know where I’m from?”

Gardis snorted. “Did you ever listen to anything Vesemir told you? Calling myself Gardis of Rinde, these days.”

Geralt hummed. “Interesting. Maybe I should pick something up.”

“Definitely. Seems to help. Makes us sound more _official_ , or something. Less like fucking wandering monster killers. I guess people want to kill the illusion. Here I thought it was such a _nice_ fantasy.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “You should come by the house,” he said. “Down in Ellander.”

Gardis shook his head. “Best not. I’d love to see Eskel. Love to meet your kid, finally, too, but I don’t think it’d be right. I got things to do, Geralt. Eskel wouldn’t want to see another Wolf, anyway. Even if I am a friendly face. Best to just let him forget it.”

Unfortunately, Gardis was right. Geralt didn’t know how Eskel would react, and it was best not to test that. Eskel needed his time, and he needed his space. However long he needed it for, Geralt had promised he’d support it. Forever, if he had to. Eskel was worth it. As much as it was nice to see Gardis, it was a passing thing. They couldn’t travel together, or they would both suffer for coin because of it.

“Keep yourself alive,” Geralt said.

“You too, Wolf. Can I tell Vesemir you’re still kicking?”

Geralt nodded. “Please do. Just me, though.” They finally stood up from their makeshift camp and half-eaten meal. “Best nobody knows about Eskel or Emiel.”

Gardis nodded. “Old man will be glad to hear it. You know—he’s actually been out and about. With what happened, less people to train, so Vesemir stepped back on the Path. Maybe you’ll meet him, too.”

“Hope to.”

But as all good things, his meeting with Gardis also ended. They went in opposite directions. Gardis headed north, further into Kaedwen, and Geralt crossed the river south and into Aedirn.

Having a sword back in his hand felt as natural for Eskel as breathing. He was still unsteady on his feet, but he was well enough now that he could move. He could hold the weight. It was Aiden’s sword, because Eskel didn’t have his own, but it was still something. Something that he could practice with and remember that he did know how to wield a sword, it had just been that long since he held one.

They were outside, because Eskel could _do_ that now. Still wobbly, sure, but he’d gone all the way out the front door without a single ounce of help. It was freeing to be back on his own two feet, if anything. It brought him back some independence. Where before, he’d even needed help to use the toilet, of all things, now he could just do whatever he wanted. He got tired faster than someone else might, but he was still able to leave his bed, cook his own meals, and enjoy a small taste of freedom.

“Think you’re gonna need a wooden sword,” Aiden said, folding his arms. “Emiel took his, didn’t he?”

Eskel shook his head. “Left it hanging in his room. Figure your Cats had enough swords for him to use when he got there. Haven’t you been in there?”

Aiden shook his head. “Not really.”

Most of the nights, Aiden did tend to just sleep in Eskel’s bed. It was easier, and the bed was large enough for it. Eskel didn’t dislike it, though it might have not been an awful thing for Aiden to sleep somewhere else. There were nights when he did, and from that it sounded like Aiden slept on the floor on those nights. If that’s what he wanted, then Eskel wouldn’t tell him not to. Realistically, Eskel understood. He didn’t like going into Emiel’s room, either.

“If I get it, will you actually spar with me?”

Aiden nodded. “Keep my sword sheathed. Not really feeling running into town just to see if they have another wooden thing. Too much work.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Eskel ducked back into the house to get the sword himself. It wasn’t Emiel’s room that was a problem. In fact, it wasn’t even the fact that it _used_ to be Emiel’s room, as in, when Eskel walked in there, Emiel’s toys were all sitting in the corner collecting dust. They hadn’t had the heart to sell them, yet, though Emiel would likely never use them again. Rather, it was the fact that Geralt used the room when he was home. The room smelled like him with a potency that didn’t exist in Eskel’s lonely bed. It was almost too much.

He made quick work of grabbing the wooden sword, then almost quicker work of getting back outside. Aiden hadn’t moved from his spot, though he was now holding his steel sword—sheathed, as promised. This was just training, so Aiden had left all of his armor inside. He was wearing his two-toned pants, boots, and a loose shirt. Even Eskel had to admit that Aiden looked good. He certainly liked to show his skin, and really, he had every right to.

“Aiden,” Eskel called for him, and that caught his attention. “Ready?”

Aiden nodded. “Always. Actually—” He set his sword down, resting it on his hip while he made quick work of his hair. He pulled a tie out of his belt and used it to secure a tail at the base of his neck. Even like this, orange strands fell out and framed his face. Not all of his hair was actually long enough to be tied back.

“Are you ready _now_?”

“Yes. Should we just start with the basic stuff, or do you wanna start fighting?”

Eskel took pause, just long enough to think. In the end, starting with the basics sounded like the best idea. Aside from the fact that Eskel didn’t have much faith in himself, this was all technically new. It’d been so long since he’d done this, starting from the beginning made the most sense. That, and his ability to walk was still redeveloping. If he tired himself out too quickly, that would be the end. He’d be right back in bed for the rest of the day.

They began with the same drills Eskel remembered from his youth. Aiden apparently remembered them well, though his walking about like the Witcher instructors had was purely for show. He had a big, stupid grin on his face the entire time, and half of his orders were given out with laughter in his throat. Aiden was an overgrown child, at the best of times; really, that was what made him so endearing. All that mattered was that he was good at what he did, and he could catch Eskel’s mistakes from a mile off.

“You look like you’re afraid of the damn thing,” Aiden said. “Know it’s been a while but come on. Pretend you’re smacking some awful alpha piece of shit.” Aiden snickered to himself.

Eskel rolled his eyes, frowned, but his lips did quirk up. Maybe that _would_ work. There several of them he wanted to beat the living shit out of; he’d just never had the chance. If he met them out on the Path, he may not be able to stop himself. He’d always been one of the better trainees. It was a crime to have pulled him out of it. He would have been an asset fighting monsters. Now, he was struggling to catch up.

“You’ll have to be better than the little ones, come on,” Aiden pressed. “How old are you?”

“Gonna whack you upside the head,” Eskel replied, but it seemed to work.

Eskel’s next strike to their old, makeshift training dummy was hard and true, enough that Aiden clapped.

“There we go! Just like that. Kick its ass. Kick it hard enough, and you can kick my ass, next.”

They kept up the training, though in relative silence, after that. When Eskel lost the energy to bite back, Aiden stopped biting in the first place. They focused on the mechanics of how Eskel was striking, where he was striking, and the footwork he had. It was the bare minimum basics. It sent Eskel all the way back to when he was five, learning to hold a sword for the first time, but it was what he needed. Still, he was unhappy about it. Angry, almost.

By the time they had finished training, Eskel just let the wooden sword drop into the ground, and he followed suit. Of course, he did so in such a way that made it look as if he’d collapsed, which had Aiden rushing over to his side in an instant. Aiden dropped beside him, hand on his shoulder, but when their eyes met—Eskel could at least offer a weak smile.

“You ass,” Aiden said, slapping Eskel’s shoulder. “Thought I was gonna have to drag you to bed.”

Eskel shook his head, eyes sparkling more than he smiled. “Tired,” he said, “but not that tired. Angry about the whole thing, really. I could already _be_ a Witcher.”

“You’d be a stinky Wolf. Nobody likes the Wolves.”

“Nobody likes the Cats, either,” Eskel reminded.

“Pretty sure nobody likes anybody. What I’m trying to say here is that it sucks, everything, but this has its merits.”

Eskel’s face turned sour, immediately, and so did his smell. “Like _what_?”

“You get to do the Dreams with your son?” Aiden tried. That offered some lightness. “Emiel’s a real stinking cutie, you know. Pretty sure he’s got half the caravan eating out of his hand. I mean, he should—he learned from the best.” Aiden gestured to himself with a hand to his chest.

“Emiel was so shy,” came Eskel’s quiet response. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Let’s get you inside,” Aiden said in lieu of a response. That wasn’t a conversation they needed to have.

Aiden could see it on Eskel’s face. In his exhaustion, he was about to go someplace dark and lonely. Aiden, of course, knew exactly why Emiel was shy. He’d heard the story enough times to have it memorized, by now. Emiel had grown up isolated—from his family, from other children. But this was good. It meant he was learning how to interact with people. No matter how good it was, Eskel had trouble not returning to that time in Kaer Morhen.

Aiden helped him up off the ground in silence. They didn’t talk on the way back into the cottage, especially with how Eskel needed to lean on Aiden the whole way. It wasn’t something Eskel wanted to talk about, so they didn’t talk. Aiden just took Eskel right back to his room, right back to his bed, then helped him sit on the edge.

“Geralt should be back soon,” Aiden said. “You be alright to train with him?”

Eskel nodded. “As long as we don’t have to wrestle in the mud, I’ll be fine.”

Aiden quirked a short-lived smile. “Already been told that the caravan’s in Cintra. They keep coming north.”

“Is that a good thing?” Eskel didn’t need help to shift himself back into bed, thankfully. Did that while they spoke, though he sat on top of the covers instead of beneath them. He wasn’t ready to resign himself back to bed rest for the day. He just needed a moment.

“Could be. What if they come all the way up to Ellander? Good work up here; I tell them that. If it’s possible, you think you’d want to see Emiel?”

“I would. Very much so.”

“Aw, you miss him.” Aiden sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. “He misses you, too.”

“Don’t you have someone else to go bother?”

Aiden laughed, then immediately stood up. That was his cue to leave Eskel to his rest and go about what he was _actually_ here for, which was helping Eskel keep things in order. Aiden had to do the things that Eskel couldn’t, and while that list was steadily shrinking, it was still a substantial one. Eskel still had trouble walking down to the river for water and laundry, so that was Aiden’s job. Maybe, if Aiden were lucky, Eskel would be rested enough to get up and help cook the evening meal they would share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uuhhhhhh what do i have to do to atone for this? writes gweld/gardis fanfic pleadingface

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)   
>  [My Twitter!](https://twitter.com/tantumunawrites)   
> 


End file.
